Just Business
by VampirePam
Summary: <html><head></head>What began as a common interest in looking after Sherlock somehow turns into something much more after a very eventful stake-out. But can the newly formed couple figure out how to reunite Sherlock and John? Mycroft/Lestrade and Sherlock/John?</html>
1. The Sherlock Holmes Surveillance Society

The arrangement was business, pure and simple. After all, since keeping track of Sherlock had somehow become Mycroft's number one job, it only made sense for him to establish regular contact with Inspector Gregory Lestrade, the only other man alive who could legitimately place "Sherlock's Keeper" on his curriculum vitae under "Postions Held." Sure, there was John, but Mycroft had deduced after his first and only covert meeting with the good Doctor Watson that he would sadly be thoroughly useless as a source of intel (at least as a willing one - Mycroft had gotten some very interesting information on several occasions from a microphone discretely placed in a striped jumper). Inspector Lestrade, on the other hand, was both privy to most of Sherlock's movements and sensible enough to see that Mycroft really did have his best interests at heart.

Soon after the upgrade of Sherlock's surveillance status to "Threat Level Orange" coinciding with the beginning of his association with John Watson, Mycroft also increased the frequency of his meetings with Lestrade from an occasional drop-in visit to a firm, weekly appointment. Somewhat surprisingly, Lestrade had expressed no objection to this arrangement, and, moreover, always seemed willing to drop whatever he was working on at the time to meet with Mycroft.

They would alternate the location of their little conferences between Lestrade's compact, but strangely homey office at Scotland Yard and Mycroft's posh headquarters overlooking the Thames. Today was no different, and so it was that Mycroft, it being his turn to play host, found himself pouring Inspector Lestrade a cup of Earl Grey and buzzing his secretary to bring in more of the biscuits the Inspector seemed to enjoy so much.

"So this Abbey Grange business?" he asked Lestrade, leaning back and sipping his own tea. "Is it dangerous?"

"Wouldn't have piqued Sherlock's interest if it weren't," the Inspector returned dryly, "But he seems to have a hold on things."

Mycroft sighed and remarked, "Well, I suppose that's the best I'm ever going to get. Let me see, when was the last time you spoke to him?"

Lestrade paused for a moment, as if recalling, then responded, "A couple days ago. He flew into my office in a whirlwind, commandeered my computer yelling something about Australia, and dashed off again just as quickly."

Mycroft sighed again and did his best not to look put upon as he said, "Same old Sherlock, then."

Lestrade then inquired, "When was the last time you saw your brother?" Upon spying Mycroft's archly lifted eyebrow, he amended, "Officially, I mean," acknowledging the fact that Mycroft was more than capable of "seeing" Sherlock without it being a mutual arrangement.

Mycroft shrugged a little and guessed, "Last week, perhaps? He has been increasingly petulant towards me of late, so I have seen even less of him than usual." Mycroft hadn't meant to express his worry on the subject to the Inspector, but it had carelessly slipped out.

Lestrade simply smiled understandingly and said comfortingly, "I shouldn't worry too much about it. Neither he nor John have looked like they've been getting much sleep recently; I shouldn't be at all surprised if there are matters at home to be worked out which have nothing to do with you."

Mycroft frowned a bit and placed his teacup back on his saucer, noting, "I said once that John Watson would either be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever. We may have reached the point where fate decides which it is."

Lestrade laughed suddenly and observed, "I don't think fate could hope to have a hand in anything involving those two; Sherlock wouldn't hear of it. More likely, with the way they've been mooning over each other these past few months, it was only a matter of time before at least one of two of the greatest detective minds I've ever had the privilege to be acquainted with noticed what the rest of us have known for ages."

Mycroft smiled appreciatively and replied, "Well put, Inspector. But what exactly do you think is going on with the two of them? Sherlock would never dream of telling me, and I highly doubt either of them would find it any more necessary to broadcast it to you."

This caused Lestrade to turn and stare out one of Mycroft's large, glass windows for a moment or two in thoughtful contemplation, until his face lit up and took on a strange, calculating expression. He then turned back to Mycroft and stated seemingly casually, "Well now, you and I can both agree that the outcome of this matter could have very serious consequences for national security."

"Of course, of course," Mycroft agreed with a wave of his hand, secretly dying to hear what the Inspector had in mind. "Sherlock is often in the direct employ of Crown; if he and John were to form a romantic attachment, there would be a serious chance that he could share with him sensitive information far above a civilian's security clearance. The results could be catastrophic."

"Exactly what I mean," Lestrade replied, trying somewhat unsuccessfully to stifle the conspiratorial grin that kept creeping onto his face, "Which is why I believe we should find out once and for all exactly what is going on."

"Excellent idea, Inspector," Mycroft said, beaming. "So glad that we are of one mind on this matter. Rest assured, I shall put my best men on it!"

"Actually," Lestrade interjected, "I was thinking that we could probably handle this one personally. Not involve unnecessary personnel in such a sensitive matter, that sort of thing."

"We?" Mycroft asked, surprised, "What were you thinking?"

"A good, old-fashioned stake-out," the Inspector declared firmly. "With all the creative ways you've tried to spy on Sherlock in the past few years, maybe he won't be able to foresee something as simple as two men sitting in a car watching him."

Mycroft stared at Lestrade for a few moments, then nodded decisively and said, "Very well, Inspector, I think I would enjoy very much to go on this "stake-out" as you call it. When do we start?"

"Tonight?" Lestrade suggested. "I don't have anything going, and it is Friday night."

"Ah yes, Friday night - date night," Mycroft responded knowingly. "If they are romantically involved, they could very easily have something planned."

"Oh, that is, if you don't have any other plans?" Lestrade asked, suddenly looking worried.

"Fear not, Inspector, I am yours for the evening," Mycroft responded laughingly. "In anticipation of our impending nocturnal adventure, however, perhaps we should adjourn this meeting to make arrangements and stock up on supplies."

"That might be wise," Lestrade agreed, standing and shaking Mycroft's hand warmly before turning to go. "Thank you once again for your hospitality, Mycroft."

"Any time, Inspector," Mycroft responded cordially, as hebegan to clear up the tea things.

"Oh, and Mycroft?" Lestrade added, his head popping back through the door as if something had just occurred to him.

"Yes, Inspector?" Mycroft inquired.

"Since we shall be sharing a small car and a quantity of unhealthy snacks for a prolonged period of time this evening, perhaps it would be best if you called me Gregory."

Mycroft laughed out loud at this, having expected something more weighty to have been the reason for the Inspector's return, but responded smoothly, "Very well, _Gregory_, I shall see you tonight."

Lestrade grinned and, with a slight tip of his hat, departed, permanently this time.

As Mycroft returned to his task of putting the cups and saucers in the small sink for his secretary to take care of later, he inexplicably found himself humming some tune - Wagner, he guessed, or perhaps Mozart. Curious, he thought to himself, that the idea of spending the night in cramped quarters with Inspector Lestrade - Gregory, he corrected - should have him in such a good mood. Yes, very curious indeed.


	2. Play It Again, Mycroft

"What do you mean, they're watching a romantic film? I assure you, my brother would not endure that for a second. You must be mistaken," Mycroft declared confidently.

"I'm just reporting what I see," Lestrade replied with a shrug of the shoulders. "Look for yourself if you don't believe me," he continued, handing the binoculars to Mycroft.

Mycroft yanked them out of his hands and put them swiftly to his eyes. To his horror and consternation, he saw that Lestrade was quite correct. John and Sherlock appeared to be sitting on the couch, arguing animatedly about the scene unfolding on their television screen: a handsome couple were driving down a country road, looking very much in love, as the Eiffel Tower zoomed by in the background.

"What kind of film is this anyway? Who are these people?" Mycroft asked, still peeved.

"You're kidding, right?" Lestrade asked incredulously. "You've never seen Casablanca?"

"Well I have been a little bit preoccupied in running the British government," Mycroft replied huffily.

"But it's a classic!" Lestrade exclaimed animatedly, "Rick and Ilsa, their tragic love affair ruined by German invasion, reconciled years later only to be parted once more for the sake of saving Europe from the Nazis - it's a cinematic masterpiece!"

Mycroft scoffed and pointed once again at the screen, "Well, all right, if they're so in love, why does he look so miserable?"

"Because of all the gin joints in all the bars in all the world, she walked into his," Lestrade responded, affecting a gravelly accent. When Mycroft looked at him like he was insane and had not in fact answered his question, Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh and muttered, "You're as bad as your brother sometimes."

The mention of Sherlock recalled to Mycroft their purpose for being parked in a car across from 221b Baker Street, and he focused his binoculars once more on John and Sherlock.

"What are they doing now?" Lestrade asked, reaching into the back of the car to retrieve a packet of crisps out of a Sainsbury's bag.

"They appear to still be discussing that inspid film!" Mycroft exclaimed, exasperated. "Well, we're never going to learn anything if we don't get some sound," he declared.

"And how do you suggest we do this?" Lestrade asked, taking some crisps from the packet and proffering it to Mycroft.

Mycroft took a handful and munched on them while he contemplated, until his face lit up in inspiration. "Wait, what time is it?"

Lestrade looked at his watch and replied, "Around eight. Why?"

"Aha!" Mycroft exclaimed, "If I know Sherlock, and we both know I do, a vehicle bearing Chinese take-away should be coming around that corner any minute now."

As if it had been waiting for Mycroft's permission, a truck sporting insignia for "Happy Wok Take-away" came hurtling round the corner and parked swiftly on the street in front of 221b.

"Follow my lead!" Mycroft whispered excitedly before tumbling out of the car, crisp crumbs flying in every direction, and walking authoritatively toward the take-away truck. Lestrade scrambled to extricate himself from the car and run after Mycroft, with no clue what he had in mind.

"You there!" Mycroft shouted, breaking out the tone of authority he reserved for recalcitrant heads of state. The delivery truck driver, upon seeing Mycroft approach, assumed an understandable expression of terror as he looked around, presumably hoping that this frightening man was addressing some other unfortunate soul nearby. "Yes, you!" Mycroft barreled on, jabbing at the man with his umbrella, "Look here, do you have a permit for these deliveries?"

"I...uh...a permit?" the man stammered, his eyes darting wildly around the cab of the truck. "I...don't...wait, who are you?" he started, but shrunk back at the imperious glance Mycroft shot him.

"Show him, Greg," he said brusquely to Lestrade, who froze for a couple seconds before fumbling for his badge and flashing it, saying in his best police voice, "Lestrade and Holmes, CID."

"What does the CID want with delivery permits?" the man asked, luckily more confused than suspicious.

Mycroft shot Lestrade an expectant glance, and he searched his brain for something acceptable to say, deciding finally on, "Urban Refreshment Conveyance Division. Very new, very hush-hush."

Mycroft's face betrayed only a split second of intense amusement before resuming its fierce mask as he continued on, "Yes, we at the URCD have been on red alert these past few weeks - a string of international food smugglers has been roaming the streets of London in trucks just like these, and we take such things very seriously. We're going to need to see inside the bag."

"Why, of course, of course," the man said, handing it over quickly.

Mycroft placed it on the bonnet and examined it methodically, even extracting a miniature pen light from his pocket and shining it over the stacked take-away containers. After jotting down some numbers in a little notebook and returning it to a pocket in the lining of his jacket, Mycroft handed the take-away back to the man with a curt nod.

"Everything looks all right here, Greg," he said to Lestrade, "Must've been the boys over at the Urban Beverage Disposal Department having a laugh."

"Cheeky buggers," said Lestrade, playing along and trying his hardest to keep a straight face. "Thank you for your time, sir; your cooperation will not be forgotten."

The delivery man, presumably in relief at not being arrested, gave them a small salute, then walked briskly up the steps to 221b to deliver the food.

"Run, run!" whispered Mycroft, grabbing Lestrade's hand and bolting toward the nearest covered space. In this case that turned out to be the brick wall of the flat next door, and they ducked behind it just in time to avoid being seen by John, who answered the door and took the take-away from the poor delivery man, who at this point was clearly as flabbergasted by the sudden disappearance of the mysterious policemen as by their existence in the first place.

By this point, Lestrade was doubled over in silent laughter, tears dripping down his cheeks, while Mycroft was simultaneously trying to hush Lestrade and being overcome himself by the absurdity of their situation. Eventually, the door to the flat slammed shut and, with a final confused glance around him, the driver returned to his truck and drove away. As soon as it rounded the corner, Mycroft and Lestrade both let out the laughs that had been bubbling up inside them the whole time and, moreover, laughed so hard they had to cling to each other to keep from falling over.

When they had both gained back a bit of their breath and composure, Mycroft managed to get out, "The Urban Refreshment Conveyance Division?" before descending once again into fits of giggles.

"Well, you didn't give me any warning!" Lestrade defended, attempting to chide Mycroft for ambushing him like that, but unable to disguise the grin still fixed on his face. "Next time, I'll be sure and come up with a much more plausible reason why two CID officers would be interrogating a delivery truck driver," he promised sarcastically.

"Yes, I think you'd better," said Mycroft solemnly, before letting out a surprised and delighted laugh when Lestrade cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. As he had only Sherlock to play with during his childhood, this sort of easy rough-housing was somewhat foreign to him, but he found it strangely appealing.

"What was the point of all that, anyway?" Lestrade asked, as if realizing suddenly that Mycroft had not told him.

Mycroft grinned wickedly, looking rather like the Cheshire Cat, and simply said, "Come, I'll show you," motioning Lestrade back toward the car. When they had snuck back to Lestrade's nondescript black Honda, Mycroft popped a miniature transmitter and pair of headphones out of yet another concealed jacket pocket. He handed one of the earbuds to Lestrade and placed the other in his own ear, then, quietly placing a finger to his lips, switched on the transmitter.

Over the low hum of the television and the crinkling static from the background, Lestrade and Mycroft could clearly make out Sherlock's voice, protesting loudly, "John, it's just not logical! She loved Rick; she should have gone with him! Why did she get on the plane with Victor?"

As Lestrade turned his head to Mycroft in no small degree of amazement, Mycroft whispered, "I placed the miniature microphone I always keep with me for just such occasions at the bottom of the beef lo-mein. He always eats that one last, so I figured it would transmit for awhile."

"You know, you could do with some other hobbies," `Lestrade remarked wryly, keeping his eyes on the window.

"That's rich coming from the man crouched in a car with me on his night off watching my brother and his flatmate eat Chinese food," Mycroft replied.

Lestrade grinned at that, but said nothing, and they both turned their attention back to the source of their entertainment.

"You would have jeopardized all those lives just to be with the person you loved, Sherlock?" they heard John ask him, his tone betraying his obvious surprise.

"Well, no, of course _I _wouldn't, John," Sherlock said impatiently, "But what I'm saying is that, logically, Elsa would have. I have never met a woman, let alone a woman in love, capable of making a rationally correct decision over an emotionally correct one. I, on the other hand, am a man of science who would never be swayed by such a petty reason as love."

"Oh," said John, looking disheartened. "My mistake."

"And besides, I really cannot fathom why you insisted on watching this illogical film and then demanding to know my thoughts on it. I could have come up with a dozen better ways to spend the evening," he said, clearly in one of his moods. He then flopped back on the sofa facing the window, and Lestrade and Mycroft slipped lower in their seats, in case he should decide for some reason to look over at the car parked across the street.

"Yes, I'm sure you could have," said John with a sigh, "Don't worry, I shan't be trying it again." Through the binoculars they were by this time sharing, Mycroft and Lestrade could see, though Sherlock could not, that he looked utterly crestfallen. As John disappeared from view, Sherlock turned to watch him go, got up and switched off the light, then returned to the couch to stare stormily out the window.

Lestrade placed the binoculars on the dash as Mycroft turned off the transmitter, and both of them leaned quietly back in their seats, looking at each other guiltily.

"I guess we should call it a night," Lestrade said softly after a couple beats, placing his keys in the ignition.

"Yes, I suppose we should," Mycroft responded with a sigh as he leaned back against the headrest. He had no desire whatsoever to trespass further on John and Sherlock, but had to admit that he was feeling a little sad to end what had up until then been one of the most enjoyable evenings he'd had in recent memory.

"Unless..." Lestrade started, then broke off.

"Yes?" Mycroft inquired, his eyes suddenly open and alert.

"You'd like to go for a pint?" Lestrade asked hopefully, looking at him in a way that, had he not known better, Mycroft would have described as shyly.

Mycroft smiled broadly and said, "Yes, Gregory, I would like that very much."

Lestrade grinned in response, then said, "Good. The Carpenter's Arms is closest, I think," as he put the car into gear and pulled out onto Baker Street.

Well, thought Mycroft to himself as they drove away, they may not have gotten the answer they wanted from Sherlock and John, but at least the evening wouldn't be a total loss.


	3. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Darts

As they strolled into the Carpenter's Arms, Mycroft was momentarily taken aback to see the handsome, thirty-something bartender giving Lestrade a welcoming smile like they were old friends.

"Greg!" the bartender hailed, beaming at him, "Didn't expect to see you tonight."

"Stakeout finished early for once, Charlie" Lestrade replied with an easy grin, sitting down at the bar and motioning for Mycroft to do the same. "So I thought I'd come visit my favorite bartender."

"You're just hoping for some drinks on the house. You policemen, you're all alike - shameless flirts," the man called Charlie said with a laugh and an eyeroll. "Watch out for this one," he warned, turning now to address Mycroft, "He's an unmerciful tease."

"Rest assured, I shall be on my guard," Mycroft promised, dramatically placing his hand over his heart and bowing his head; he had purposefully kept his face solemn, but his eyes were twinkling with amusement.

Charlie gave Mycroft a quick and appraising once-over, then leaned over the bar to whisper conspiratorially to Lestrade, "Oh, I like this one Greg. Yes, just what you need, I'd say."

"What I _need_, Charlie," Lestrade said firmly, "Is two pints of the usual for me and my friend here."

"All right, all right, I can take a hint," Charlie responded, his raised hands conveying surrender but his expression giving off anything but. "Guinness all right with you, sir?" he asked Mycroft.

"Oh, I'm sure whatever the two of you procure for me shall be a transcendent experience," Mycroft responded gallantly.

Charlie rewarded him with a grin, shot Lestrade a meaningful look as he murmured, "Yes, _just_ what you need," then went to get the drinks.

"Well, I can see why you like this place," Mycroft said before Lestrade could explain. "Charlie is obviously inordinately fond of you, but unless I'm mistaken, the affection is more friendly than romantic. That combined with the innocent flirting leads me to guess...brother-in-law?"

Lestrade laughed, obviously impressed. "You know, sometimes you act so normally, I forget you're a Holmes. Brother-in-law's as good a term as any; Charlie's been married to my best friend Jim for going on three years now. Not only is he a loyal friend and an excellent bartender, but he has also taken me on as something of a personal project as of late. I keep trying to convince Jim to let him redecorate the kitchen instead, but to no avail."

Charlie returned swiftly with the drinks and, with a quick wink at the pair of them, was off again in a flash, suddenly very interested in assisting a middle-aged Asian gentleman who appeared thoroughly baffled by the pub menu.

Lestrade lifted his glass in a salutatory gesture at Mycroft and said, "Here's looking at you, kid." At Mycroft's baffled expression, he gave another exasperated sigh and said firmly, "Casablanca. Next weekend, we're watching it. No arguments."

Mycroft laughed and agreed, echoing Lestrade's gesture with his own glass and taking a sip, nodding appreciatively afterwards.

"Is it a transcendent experience?" Lestrade asked with a wry smile.

"Oh quite," remarked Mycroft, "I'm normally a wine man, but this is quite excellent. Charlie should be commended."

"I've been trying to get him into the Urban Beverage Disposal Department for years," Lestrade replied with a serious expression, causing Mycroft to utter a loud laugh and jab him affectionately on the shoulder.

After finishing his first beer a few moments later, Mycroft declared, "Well, Gregory, we've partaken of the potables, which I deem distinctly above average, but I'm afraid I won't be able to rubber stamp this pub of yours until I've sampled the entertainment."

"Oh, really?" Lestrade asked, amused, "What exactly did you have in mind? A go on the fruit machine?"

"Don't be silly," Mycroft replied. "Everyone knows the mark of a truly exceptional local establishment," he continued knowledgably, "is a fully equipped dart board. I assume the Carpenter's Arms possesses one?"

"Yes, yes," Lestrade said, a little astonished, "It's in the back."

"Excellent!" Mycroft proclaimed excitedly, as he removed his Hugo Boss jacket, folded it briskly, and placed it on the back of his stool. "Take me to it!"

Lestrade got up as well, hastily removing his own jacket and slipping it over his stool. He led Mycroft to the dart board in the back, but not before throwing a warning glance at Charlie, who was looking like he dearly wanted to say something inappropriate.

"Red or green?" Mycroft asked brightly, removing the darts from the board and offering them to Lestrade.

Lestrade glanced at them for a moment, then up at Mycroft, then back down again, still trying to process his new discovery of Mycroft's passion for darts. Finally, he decided on green and picked up the appropriate half of the darts.

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically, muttered, "Excellent!" and retreated behind the faded, chalk starting-line opposite the board.

"How long have you had this fascination with darts, exactly?" Lestrade asked, as Mycroft gestured eagerly for him to take his first shot.

"Oh ages," Mycroft replied, cringing as Lestrade's first dart hit the rim of the "2" box. "Blair and I used to play twice a week in the old days. Cameron's more of a billiards man, unfortunately," he continued with a sigh.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows at this, but said nothing, finishing his turn with an abysmal 12 points.

"You play darts like you're lobbing a cricket ball," Mycroft remarked despairingly, "Your stroke needs to be much more fluid than that. Observe." With that, he stepped up to the line and fired three darts, one after the other, into the "20" space at the top of the board.

"Well, we don't all have world leaders to practice with," Lestrade protested, a bit defensively.

"Now, that's no excuse," Mycroft chided, "Come on, I'll show you." He retrieved his own darts, made a small notation on the chalk scoreboard, and walked back to stand behind Lestrade. "Now, try again," he said encouragingly, peeking over Lestrade's shoulder.

This time, Lestrade tried closing one eye and throwing that way, but this just resulted in him sending the dart flying into the plaster wall next to the board.

"Sorry, Charlie," he yelled, cringing slightly.

Charlie swept by with a fresh round of drinks and proclaimed, "These can only help," with a pointed look at Lestrade. Before turning to leave, he walked over to Mycroft and grasped his sleeve theatrically, imploring him, "Please, help him; save my walls."

Mycroft laid a hand on his shoulder and raised the other in the air as if taking an oath, responding with the utmost solemnity, "I promise, I will do my level best."

Charlie grinned, took one last, pained look at the plaster, and was gone again.

Lestrade resignedly took a swing from the pint Charlie had obligingly brought him and prepared to take his second shot. Before he had loosed the dart, however, Mycroft interrupted from behind him, "I'm sorry, I can't allow this to go on any further. Your stance is all wrong; let me show you," and reached forward to adjust his posture.

"I am a grown man, Mycroft!" Lestrade protested, "I think I know how to throw a dart."

Mycroft looked at him incredulously, then at the sizable hole in the wall next to the dart board, then back at him, and said, "Not too fine a point on it, dear fellow, but clearly you don't. It would be none of my concern, despite my love for the sport, but I promised Charlie that I would do everything within my power to save his walls from further injury, and I am a man of my word. Now, why don't you stop protesting, act like the grown man you so vocally claim to be, and learn how to throw a dart properly? Your stance again, please."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and grumbled a bit, but nevertheless posed as if he were preparing to throw a dart. Mycroft gave him a quick up and down glance, mumbled, "Oh no, no, no, that's not right at all," took a long drink from his pint as if for strength, then sidled up behind Lestrade.

"Now, your posture should be much looser," he began, placing his hands lightly on the sides of Lestrade's hips, attempting to guide them into a less constrained position.

"Mycroft, really!" Lestrade objected, "I'm an Inspector for God's sake!"

"Yes, Gregory," Mycroft said patiently, moving his hands up to straighten out Lestrade's shoulders, "I am perfectly aware of that fact, although how you achieved that rank without even a cursory knowledge of the game of darts, I shall never know. Now your right arm should swing lightly and naturally as you take your shot."

He placed his left hand on Lestrade's waist and extended his right arm so it paralleled Lestrade's own, using his hand to manipulate Lestrade's grip and swinging their arms back and forth together. For a few moments, they swayed in perfect tandem, and Lestrade brushed his left hand ever so lightly over the one Mycroft had placed on his waist.

"One," Mycroft began counting softly, preparing Lestrade to take his shot, "Two...Three!" Lestrade swung his arm back with Mycroft's and then forward one last time, freeing the dart to fly elegantly into the center of the target.

"Perfect! Absolutely perfect!" Mycroft said, giving Lestrade a little squeeze which required almost no effort as his arms had been wrapped around him for the past ten minutes.

Lestrade laughed and leaned back against him slightly, saying, "All right, I admit it, that was fun. With you as a teacher, Charlie may revoke my lifelong ban on the pool table."

"A mountain I would be most willing to climb another evening," Mycroft commented amiably. "But for now, I think we've earned another round. Charlie!"

Two hours and three pints apiece later, they had discussed Lestrade's role as the aubergine in a middle school pageant on nutrition, Mycroft's passionate hatred of women who wore too much perfume in elevators, and their mutual belief that Connery was the undisputed James Bond. Eventually, however, the conversation took a natural turn toward the subject which had begun their little adventure earlier that evening: Sherlock.

"I can't imagine him as a child," Lestrade said, his words slurring only a little, "What was he like?"

"Shorter," Mycroft deadpanned. They both stared blankly at each other for a couple seconds before erupting into fits of giggles.

As the laughter died down, however, Mycroft's tone turned reflective and sentimental, and he said, "He was trouble from the very first. Always getting into places he wasn't supposed to be, telling people things he wasn't supposed to know. 'You make sure and take care of your brother,' Mummy said, and I promised that I would."

"And you have been ever since, " Lestrade finished for him. "You don't think he's old enough to take care of himself now?" he asked gently.

"Well, look what happens when I leave him to his own devices!" Mycroft argued passionately, gesturing grandiosely with his glass. "John Watson is the best thing that's happened to him in years, maybe ever, and he's cocking it up!"

Lestrade nearly spit out the sip of beer he had in his mouth and said laughingly, "Mycroft Holmes, I'll bet you've never said "cocking it up" before in your life! I must get you drunk more often."

Mycroft blushed and said defensively, "I'm not that drunk!" But after quickly playing the past hour over in his mind, he added sheepishly, "Well, maybe I've had one or two more than I ought. Sorry, didn't mean to get so worked up there."

Lestrade reached over and squeezed his hand warmly, saying, 'No, don't apologize, please. You love your brother enough to get upset when you think he's ruining his life. I think that's lovely."

"Lovely?" Mycroft asked, and now it was Lestrade's turn to blush.

"You know what I mean," he said, embarassed, and turned back toward the bar as Mycroft grinned at him.

"Do you think he's ruining his life?" Mycroft asked quietly after a minute, genuinely interested in Lestrade's opinion.

"Quite possibly," Lestrade admitted after some thought, "But I also think that you telling him that won't fix it; if anything it will probably make things worse."

Mycroft sighed and said, "You're probably right," before finishing off his pint. As he was waving Charlie over for two more, Lestrade patted him lightly on the shoulder and then took off for the back of the bar, presumably to use the facilities.

"Charlie?" Mycroft called out plaintively, causing Charlie to jog down to him from the other end of the bar. "Charlie, you're a bartender."

"Yeah, I'm with you so far," replied Charlie with a laugh, "Clearly the lager hasn't impaired all your neural functions."

"No, no," said Mycroft impatiently, trying to get his words to work properly, "What I mean is, people tell you their problems, right?"

"Sure, all the time. Bartenders and hairdressers hear it all, so they say. Why, you have a problem you need some professional help with?"

"It's my brother," Mycroft said with a sigh. "Do you have a brother, Charlie?" he asked, not waiting for an answer before barrelling on, "They're nothing but trouble, I'm telling you. My brother is an idiot; I mean, he's not, he's a genius, a total genius. But I'm telling you, Charlie, he's a first class idiot. He has this great guy - I mean smart, funny, sweet, the whole deal - who wants to be with him, and he won't do a damn thing about it. He is not the easiest person in the world to love - believe me, I know - and I'm scared this is his one chance to be happy, and he's throwing it away."

"Why would he do that?" asked Charlie sagely.

"I don't know!" Mycroft moaned, "Stupid reasons, I suppose - he's afraid it would change everything, afraid it wouldn't work out, afraid that no one could ever really love someone like him".

"Mycroft, I'm going to impart some insight to you, acquired painstakingly during my 15 years at this job. Are you ready to hear it?" Charlie asked, looking serious.

Mycroft nodded slowly, doing his best to match Charlie's expression.

"Are you sure we're talking about your brother and not you?" Charlie inquired.

"Me?" Mycroft said in genuine surprise. "Who could I be...?" he trailed off as Charlie inclined his head slightly toward the back of the bar. "Oh, shit. I've only just realized."

Charlie smiled sympathetically, saying, "That's how it always is with the good ones - straight out of the blue, no warning."

Mycroft sat back in his stool, still in shock from his sudden revelation. He looked back up at Charlie, suddenly afraid, and said, "I don't know what to do, Charlie."

"Well, Mycroft," Charlie replied, "That depends - are you an idiot, or are you a genius?"

"I know which I feel like at the moment," he said truthfully.

"Greg's a good bloke," Charlie said, leaning over the bar to look him in the eye, "One of the best, in fact. And in the five years I've known him, I've never seen him laugh half as much as he did with you tonight. I wasn't kidding when I said you'd be good for him; and I think I can now say with certainty that he'd definitely be good for you. So, Mycroft Holmes, I ask you again - are you going to sit there like an idiot, or go get him like a genius?"

Mycroft finished off what was left of Lestrade's beer for some liquid courage, murmured a heartfelt "Thank you" to Charlie, and headed off toward the back of the bar. To his surprise, he found Lestrade leaning against the wall of a small alcove containing a beat-up jukebox.

He meant to say something romantic, but all that came out was "What are you doing?"

Lestrade paused as if formulating what he was going to say and finally blurted out, "Standing here trying to figure out a way to ask you back to my place without feeling like an idiot." He looked miserably embarassed.

"Well," said Mycroft thoughtfully, "How about, 'Mycroft would you like to come back to my place?'"

"That could work," Lestrade admitted after a pause. "Mycroft, would you like to come back - " was all he got out before Mycroft kissed him, pressing him against the brick wall of the alcove. Lestrade immediately returned the kiss, placing his hands on the sides of Mycroft's face. They bounced off all the walls of the small alcove, even colliding a few times with the jukebox, as they took turns taking the lead.

After a few minutes of this, they pulled apart a little to catch their breath; Lestrade took advantage of the pause to ask, "So I should take that as a yes then, should I?"

Mycroft laughed, wrapped his arms around Lestrade's neck, and declared, "Yes, Gregory Lestrade, yes, there is nothing I would like more in the world than to go back to your place."

Lestrade's eyes lit up and he gave Mycroft a quick kiss on the lips before running toward the front of the bar, shouting, "I'll bring the car round!"

Mycroft walked slightly more slowly toward the main room to say good night to Charlie, who commented immediately, "I take it by the silly grins on both your faces that you decided on genius?"

"Oh yes," replied Mycroft, unable to stop smiling for a moment. Impulsively, he leaned over the bar to give Charlie a quick peck on the cheek and said, "Thanks for everything, Charlie. I just might have to send my brother over to you."

Charlie looked at him in surprise and said, "So you really have a brother then?"

Mycroft laughed and said, "Oh yes, I really have a brother. And he really is an idiot." At this point Lestrade ran back into the room, took Mycroft's hand, and led him quickly out the door, giving him only just enough time to yell out a quick good night to Charlie before the door of the pub swung shut.

They could barely keep their hands off each other long enough to make it to the car, and Mycroft soon found himself pressed against the well-worn leather of the passenger seat by Lestrade's body. "How far is it to your place?" he gasped when they came up for air.

"God, fifteen minutes at least," Lestrade said, looking very dissatisfied with this number. "What about yours?"

"Five if we gun it," Mycroft replied eagerly, before pouncing on him again. "Get out, I'll drive."

"Are you sure you're up for it?" Lestrade asked in sudden concern, trying to do the blood alcohol calculations in his head.

"Not to worry, I should be well within the legal limit, a .06 at worst," Mycroft assured him. At Lestrade's flabbergasted expression, he added, "Genius, remember?"

With that, Lestrade acquiesced, and Mycroft soon found himself driving well over the speed limit in a strange car toward where he mostly remembered his flat was with an incredibly handsome policeman draped all over him.

They tumbled out of the car, kissing non-stop as they stumbled into Mycroft's building while still pawing at each other like two love-struck teenagers. Somehow they made it relatively unscathed into the elevator, onto Mycroft's floor, and finally into his flat.

When they reached the door to the bedroom, however, Lestrade pried himself off Mycroft momentarily to ask in a serious voice, "Are you sure you want this? It'll change everything."

Mycroft gave him a little lopsided smile and said, "God, I hope so!" kissing him again, sweetly this time. He then withdrew a little and, stroking Lestrade's cheek softly, assured him, "I want this, Greg. I'm not going to be sorry in the morning."

"Me neither," Lestrade said confidently, a huge grin on his face, "Just wanted to make sure."

As they tumbled laughing onto the bed, errant buttons flying everywhere as they struggled to get each other's clothes off, Mycroft thought briefly about how marvelous it was that a day which had begun in such an ordinary fashion could end as spectacularly as this. Then Lestrade kissed him once more, maneuvering himself so he was straddling Mycroft on the bed, and, for once in his life, Mycroft Holmes quit thinking altogether.


	4. Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You

Mycroft awoke to a flurry of sounds filtering in from the next room - running water, clattering cookware, and what he would have sworn was someone humming a catchy little tune. He stumbled out of bed, feeling very disoriented, and was in the middle of shrugging on the first pair of trousers he saw when it occurred to him to wonder who was in his kitchen. He dashed as quickly as his sluggish reflexes would allow to the door, only to look through it and find Inspector Gregory Lestrade standing at his stove, dressed only in one of Mycroft's robes and a pair of navy blue boxers, cooking him what looked to be a full English breakfast, and singing to himself, "I love you baby, and if it's quite all right, I need you baby.."

As Mycroft stood there in some confusion, trying to process this strange and marvelous sight, Lestrade seemed to suddenly notice his presence, pausing his singing long enough to shoot Mycroft a grin which caused his stomach to do the kind of little somersaults he knew could not be blamed on hunger alone.

"Good morning," Lestrade said brightly, walking over to give him a quick kiss before returning to his tending of the eggs and sausages. "I hope you don't mind me not waking you, but you just looked so peaceful that I thought I'd let you sleep."

"Where did you get all of th-" Mycroft started to ask, being quite sure that as as of yesterday, his refrigerator had contained at most a few sticks of margarine and some mustard, but a terrible realization hit him mid-sentence.

"Oh God, Anthea. I told her to come round at eight to prep for my meeting with the French ambassador," he said, his growing horror and embarrassment prompting him to indulge his sudden need to sit down by flopping down ignominiously into one of the chairs situated adjacent to the pleasantly arranged breakfast table.

"Your assistant? Oh, don't worry about her," Lestrade reassured him cheerfully, inserting two slices of bread into the toaster, "She came by earlier, but I told her that you were having a bit of a lie-in, and she was the model of understanding. Really, a lovely girl and so obliging; she said if I needed anything at all, she would be only too happy to help. When I expressed my desire to make you breakfast and my despair at the contents of your kitchen, she just nodded sympathetically, promised to take care of everything, and returned thirty minutes later with three bags full of groceries, that bouquet of fresh flowers, and this toaster. I swear, with just five of her, I could decrease the crime rate in this city by seventy percent in a matter of weeks."

Mycroft groaned and ran a hand through his hair, knowing that the second he went into the office, he would be subjected to one of the amused, all-knowing side glances Anthea always loved to give him on the rare occasions when his demeanor of impenetrable professionalism was compromised. Her going to his flat and finding a barely-dressed policeman who wanted to make him breakfast definitely qualified.

Lestrade just laughed at his obvious discomfort and sauntered up behind him, leaning down to wrap his arms around Mycroft's neck. He gave him a quick peck on the cheek and murmured, "You know, you're cute when you're flustered."

Mycroft sighed and looked terribly put-upon, but was unable to completely conceal his smile as he leaned his head back to give Lestrade a proper kiss good morning. "Don't get used to it," he warned, reaching for the morning paper as Lestrade returned to finish the breakfast. "I can count on one hand the number of people in the world with the security clearance to see me flustered. If it happens again, the state department might have to get involved - memory modification and all that."

"Well now, if you erase my memory," Lestrade replied thoughtfully, "then there's a good chance I could forget completely how to do baked beans, and you'd have to make your own breakfast, which, judging by the previous contents of your kitchen, you are obviously completely incapable of doing."

Lestrade ducked to avoid the newspaper that Mycroft had hurled at him and brought two plates piled high with food over to the table.

"Mmm, on second thought that is indeed a highly persuasive argument," Mycroft admitted as he looked at the feast in front of him. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had made him breakfast, let alone pulled out all the stops for a full English.

"How do you think I got promoted to Inspector?" Lestrade asked with a twinkle in his eye as he took a bite of egg, "None of the other boys at the station can even boil water, and what with the diet his wife put him on, the Chief was tired of eating nothing but store-bought egg and watercress sandwiches at all the potlucks. Figured if he bumped up my pay grade, once a month he might just get to eat something that resembled food."

"I'll bet not a word of that's true," Mycroft declared.

"Let me know if you still think that after you have the breakfast," Lestrade replied mischievously, moving on to the toast.

Mycroft accepted the challenge and, after trying the sausages, was compelled to admit that Lestrade was a fine chef, indeed. "Well now you've done it," Mycroft said definitively, "I'll never go back to coffee and a bran muffin again. I shall languish in misery every day that I can't start with a meal as exceptional as this."

Lestrade laughed and replied, "Well I guess I'd better sleep over more often, then, to save you from all that languishing."

Mycroft considered Lestrade's words for just a moment before saying evenly, "Yes, I suppose you better had," and then returning to his toast.

Neither of them acknowledged the shift verbally - both continued to chat amiably about this and that - and indeed, few casual observers would have perceived any alteration at all in their behavior; nevertheless, it could not be denied that the status quo had changed suddenly and indelibly.

Up until that moment, either of them could have written the whole thing off as a drunken mistaken between two friends, and that would have been that, a blip on the radar to be thought of only in times of panicked life rexamination or maudlin remembrance. Their last exchange, with its promise of future nights together and future breakfasts after, had catapulted things into the realm of inarguable reality.

Before Mycroft had a chance to ponder this too much, he heard the sound of his mobile from the bedroom, and, after Lestrade waved for him to answer it, jogged over and fished it out of the pocket of the trousers he had been wearing the night before. When he saw Anthea's name pop up on the screen, he groaned silently, took a deep breath and answered, "Yes, Anthea?"

"I am so sorry to disturb your...lie-in, sir," Anthea said, not sounding sorry at all, "But there's been a bit of a problem with the nuclear disarmament conference. Apparently the Russian Premier is all in a huff because the German President insulted his hat and is refusing to take it back. Add in the French Prime Minister calling them both barbarians and we are one badly translated pun away from an international incident."

"And you really need me for this?" Mycroft asked with a sigh, glancing longingly toward the kitchen. He couldn't remember the last time he had wanted to spend more time than was strictly necessary in his apartment; probably the last time someone had made him breakfast, he thought dryly.

"I'm afraid there's more," Anthea continued after a small, but weighty pause, "There's been some chatter on the airwaves about some extremists wanting to undermine the conference. This might be just the distraction they're looking for."

Mycroft read between the lines of what Anthea was saying and realized with a sinking feeling that there could be hundreds of lives in danger if her intel was correct, which it almost always was. No question about it, this would have to take precedence over the lazy Saturday he had planned. "I'll be right over," he told her, adding, "Just keep everything together until I get there," before he hung up.

He shrugged on a shirt, tie, and jacket in a much more haphazard fashion than he was accustomed to and walked back into the kitchen, praying Lestrade wouldn't think he was bolting. "Gregory, I -" he started, but Lestrade cut him off.

"No need to explain - duty calls. Your tone made it sound serious. You get going, I'll see myself out." He got up to start clearing away the dishes, and Mycroft, overwhelmed by Lestrade's apparently omnipresent determination to only make his life easier, marched swiftly over and kissed him full on the lips.

When Mycroft finally withdrew and continued packing up his things, Lestrade asked, a bit confused, "Not that I'm complaining, but what was that for?"

Mycroft smiled and, pausing briefly in gathering his things, looked at him and said, "Just for being you. And breakfast, which was wonderful." As he picked up his briefcase from the counter and turned to go, a thought struck him suddenly. "You know, if you wanted, you don't have to see yourself out."

"What exactly are you suggesting?" Lestrade asked, looking intrigued.

"Well," said Mycroft slowly, "what if you stayed here today? My refrigerator may not be up to par, but the flat is more than adequately equipped with entertainment of every sort, or if you wanted to get some work done, there's a computer in the lounge. Whatever international incident is happening at this conference will have to be resolved before dinner; you haven't seen a diplomacy disaster until you've seen a room of world leaders deprived of their free chicken kiev. I should be home by six at the latest, and then we'd have the evening free to spend together."

As he waited for Lestrade to answer, a bubble of panic started to rise in his chest, and he added quickly, "Only if you wanted to. If you have plans or something you'd rather be doing at home..."

"No, no," Lestrade assured him, "I'd love to stay here. I'm just...surprised. You must trust me a lot to leave me alone here all day with nothing but your belongings to amuse me."

"I do," replied Mycroft sincerely, giving him a quick kiss goodbye before exiting into the hallway, briefly popping back in to add as an afterthought, "If you want the really juicy stuff, it's in the small wooden box on the right side of the little shelf in my closet. The combination's a simple alphanumeric substitution; child's play, really. See you tonight!"

He walked down the hallway toward the elevator, whistling and swinging his umbrella back and forth, although reigning himself back in somewhat upon receiving several disapproving looks from the elderly dowager ladies who lived in the building. Still, as he got on the elevator, he couldn't help singing a little to himself, "Oh pretty baby, now that I've found you, stay, and let me love you baby, let me love you..."


	5. You Must Remember This

"Gregory?" Mycroft called out as he stumbled through the front door of his flat. After unceremoniously dumping his umbrella and briefcase next to the door, he shuffled wearily through the vestibule toward the living room, shouting, "I'm sorry to be so late - to say it has been one of those days would be putting it mildly."

Mycroft found Lestrade sitting on the couch, examining a case-file he had spread over the sleek, glass coffee table. He was wearing a heather gray, cable-knit jumper that Mycroft vaguely remembered having gotten for Christmas a few years back and then immediately stuffed in the back of his closet.

Lestrade's face lit up when he saw him come in, and he started in way of explanation, "I hope you don't mind - I was rummaging through your closet looking for all your dirty little secrets when I saw this, and as it appears to be the only thing you own that isn't a suit, I commandeered it for the day."

Mycroft laughed and said, "Consider it yours. In fact, judging by how you look in it, I may have to retroactively write a much more effusive thank-you note to whichever dotty relative it was who sent it to me."

"Charmer. You're just sucking up because you're late," Lestrade said, but hopped up from the couch to give Mycroft an enthusiastic kiss hello anyway. "You look beat. Rough day?" he asked sympathetically, arms still around Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft groaned dramatically and wrapped his arms around Lestrade, burying his face in the soft grey wool of the borrowed jumper. He suddenly understood for the first time in his life why people wore them, or at least why they gave them to other people for Christmas.

"I swear, Gregory, world leaders are as bad as children," he lamented. "Most days I feel more like a primary school teacher than an international relations specialist. You would think that a bomb threat would give them some perspective, but no, I still spent four hours trying to figure out how to say, 'He really did want to know if your hat was real beaver' into Russian."

Lestrade nodded understandingly, although he looked suspiciously like he was trying hard not to laugh. "You clearly need a glass of wine," he said and went to get the Pinot.

"It's on the top shelf," Mycroft called after him.

"I know," Lestrade shouted back. "I came across it earlier when I was looking for, well, anything in your cupboards. A kitchen with no food and ten bottles of wine - some might call that a drinking problem."

"Others with more attuned insight would conclude that it was simply owned by a man with no time to shop," Mycroft retorted. "Shall I order us something to go with the wine? Otherwise we shall risk living up to the apparent implications of my kitchen by over-indulging ourselves again tonight."

"All taken care of," Lestrade said with a note of pride, handing Mycroft a glass of wine. "I texted Anthea to call me when you were on your way back so I could order this," he explained, pulling open the door of the refrigerator to reveal two neat stacks of Chinese take-away cartons. "My insight is far more attuned than you give me credit for," he concluded smugly.

Mycroft raised his hands in supplication and said, "I'm sorry for ever doubting you." As he leaned down to examine the take-away more closely, Mycroft let out a sudden, surprised laugh, and commented, "Happy Wok? Tell me it was delivered by our new friend."

Lestrade grinned at him and replied, "Alas, no, much to my disappointment; I was fully prepared to confiscate it under the banner of URCD official business, fruits of a crime and all that."

"Blast, what a wasted opportunity," Mycroft lamented in mock disappointment, taking a long sip of his wine before placing it on the counter. "Ah well, I guess we shall have to content ourselves with consuming the evidence." He got out the containers in addition to several bowls and had just begun to systematically distribute the take-away when he noticed Lestrade looking at him in bewilderment. "What?" he asked, confused.

"Have you never ordered Chinese take-away?" Lestrade asked incredulously.

"Well," said Mycroft defensively, "I've been on a bit of a diet recently, and besides, I usually work so late that I just eat at the executive dining room there."

"That is rubbish," Lestrade declared decisively. "First of all, you absolutely do not need to be on a diet," he started, waving off Mycroft's protestations and continuing, "and second of all, even the finest executive dining room cannot possibly be a proper substitute for authentic, MSG-filled Chinese take-away."

"All right then," Mycroft countered sarcastically, "What is the correct procedure for this sort of thing? Teach me, o master, I am anxious to learn."

Lestrade ignored his tone and began didactically, "All you have to do is follow a few simple, but non-negotiable rules. One, no bowls - Chinese take-away must always be eaten directly out of the container and with the chopsticks provided."

"That's completely arbitrary!" Mycroft objected.

"Nonsense," Lestrade said firmly, "It is the only way to get the proper flavor profile. Second, the Chinese take-away constitutes communal property; anyone in the approved group of diners can partake of any dish at any time."

"Well, that seems suspiciously close to anarchy," Mycroft said sullenly, "But I suppose I shall have to cede to your expertise."

"Good," Lestrade said with a nod of approval, "then you also won't mind me picking our entertainment for the evening." He knelt down to rummage under his case-file and, with a small exclamation of triumph, withdrew a DVD case and handed it to Mycroft.

Mycroft took it hesitantly and, in a pompous, oratorical tone, began to read aloud the description on the back: "Casablanca - relive the magic, the romance, and the tragedy of one of the greatest love stories ever told in this remastered, two-disc, special edition."

"It's a crime you haven't watched it, and as you undoubtedly know, crime-prevention happens to be my specialty," Lestrade said.

Mycroft sighed and said, "I have no choice in the matter, do I?''

"Your powers of observation are as sharp as ever," Lestrade returned with a cheeky grin. "If you don't like it, I promise to let you subject me to whatever films you have been wasting your time with while you were too busy to watch this one."

"If I must, I must," Mycroft replied, sighing again and flopping on the couch, but his grumbling was all for show. He was realizing rapidly just how novel and wonderful an experience it was to suddenly have someone care about what films he watched, how his day had gone, and even how he ate his Chinese food.

Lestrade popped the film into the DVD player in Mycroft's swanky, modern entertainment center then dropped down next to him on the couch, picking up a container of sesame chicken and handing Mycroft the egrolls. After a couple minutes of rearranging, they got themselves settled with the food and Lestrade finally pressed play. The screen immediately flashed a variety of ineffectual warnings before launching into a roll of old-fashioned black-and-white credits displayed over a stylized map of Africa. As he listened to the announcer's voice explaining gravely about the various secret paths to freedom available to those fleeing occupied countries, Mycroft felt himself slowly sinking into both the couch and the story.

Over the course of the next two hours, watching Rick and Ilsa reunite, reminisce, fight, kiss, cry, and ultimately say goodbye once again, Mycroft found himself getting more and more relaxed, with the result that, though he had started the film sitting fully upright on the couch, by the time Rick and Louie were discussing their beautiful friendship, he had somehow shifted so that his head was laying in Lestrade's lap with Lestrade absent-mindedly stroking his hair and the empty containers of Chinese littered over the coffee table.

When "The End" lit up the screen in large, white letters, Mycroft sniffled slightly, and Lestrade looked down at him and asked gently, though trying to mask his amusement, "Mycroft, are you crying?"

"No," Mycroft said quickly, surreptitiously wiping his eyes, "It's just...inspiring to see people so committed to the abolishing of authoritarian regimes. We could certainly use a few more Ricks and Ilsas at the office."

"Uh-huh," said Lestrade skeptically. "And their doomed love story has nothing to do with it?"

Mycroft thought about staunchly defending his patriotic argument, but in the end just gave in and admitted, "Oh, fine, you got me! I'm a closet hopeless romantic." As he spoke, he shifted his position so he could look up at Lestrade.

Lestrade smiled down at him and said, "I like hopeless romantics," before he leaned down to give him a lingering kiss while gently using his thumb to brush away the single tear remaining on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft, meanwhile, stretched up to meet the kiss and buried his hands in Lestrade's salt-and-pepper hair. When they had eventually pulled apart, Mycroft made himself comfortable once more on Lestrade's lap and, after a pause, asked, "Gregory?"

"Mmm?" Lestrade responded, resuming his stroking of Mycroft's hair.

"What are we going to do about Sherlock and John?" He hated to spoil the warm intimacy of the moment, but the heartbreaking little scene they had witnessed during the stakeout had been haunting him all day.

Lestrade exhaled and said, "I don't know, Mycroft. Is it really our place to do anything?"

"Yes," Mycroft said seriously. He took Lestrade's hand in his, looked directly into his eyes, and said sincerely, "Now more than ever, I know what's at stake for them, and what they'll be missing out on if keep getting their signals crossed."

Lestrade's face softened, and, after a moment, he sighed exasperatedly and said, "Now how can I argue with you when you say things like that? You, Mycroft Holmes, do not play fair."

Mycroft grinned and said, "I have been told it's part of my charm. So you'll help?"

"Yes, all right, I'll help," Lestrade said, giving in with only a modicum of grumbling, "Tomorrow, over breakfast, we'll formulate a plan of attack." His expression turned suddenly mischevious as he said, "But that means you'll have to make it up to me tonight."

"Oh, don't worry," Mycroft said with a wicked smile, as he extricated himself from the couch, took Lestrade's hand, and led him toward the bedroom. "I fully intend to."


	6. Operation Casablanca

"Well, I think we can agree that thus far, Operation Casablanca has been a complete and total failure," Mycroft stated matter-of-factly.

"That's a hell of a way to start things off," Lestrade objected, "It's not like we haven't tried."

"No," Mycroft agreed, "Merit badge for effort and all that, but the fact is, my brother and John Watson are no closer to being a couple now than they were a month ago when we started this little mission."

Lestrade sighed in desperation and took a swig of his beer. "What do you think, Charlie?"

"For starters, I think that it's a bit strange that you carry around file folders full of surveillance photos of your brother and his flatmate," Charlie said to Mycroft, gesturing to the cardboard box he had placed on the bar.

"Duly noted," Mycroft said cooly. "Anything slightly more profound to offer?"

"Sorry, mate, I've got nothing," Charlie said. "I will, however, contribute a round of lagers to the cause," he declared and went off to pour them.

"Well I think we need more intel," offered Lestrade. "Try as we might, we don't know if John has tried to tell Sherlock how he feels again, or if Sherlock's picked up on any change between them. Without even this basic information, we can't hope to formulate a real plan of attack."

Mycroft turned to him and asked somewhat despairingly, "But how do we get this information? Any and all attempts in the last month on our parts to coax either of them into a conversation about it have been ignored, misunderstood, or shot down outright."

Lestrade thought for a moment, then his face broke into a smile and he called out, "Charlie!"

Charlie returned with the drinks and responded, "Yes?" as he placed one apiece in front of Mycroft and Lestrade, as well as one on the bar for himself.

"No, Charlie, you're the answer!" Lestrade exclaimed excitedly.

Charlie and Mycroft looked at each other in confusion, then back at Lestrade. "The answer to what, exactly?" Charlie asked.

"Our information problem! Just follow me, all right?" Lestrade continued, looking very pleased with himself.

Mycroft and Charlie both nodded, though looking a bit apprehensive, and Lestrade outlined his proposal. "Neither John nor Sherlock will open up to either of us," he started, gesturing to himself and Mycroft, "about what they feel for each other because we're too close to them. But Charlie here is a total stranger! Not only that, as a bartender, he is in the perfect position to make people confess their deepest, darkest secrets, especially when you factor in the continued intake of alcohol."

Mycroft had been listening with rapt attention, and at the conclusion of Lestrade's suggested plan, Mycroft jumped off his bar stool and kissed him emphatically on the mouth. "Brilliantly reasoned, Gregory," he said afterwards in way of explanation and returned to his seat.

"Well," replied Lestrade with a slightly surprised smile, "I must remember to present rational arguments to you more often. It has benefits of which I was heretofore unaware."

Mycroft laughed and placed his hand affectionately over Lestrade's on the bar, before turning back to Charlie. "What do you say, Charlie?" he asked, in his best pleading voice, "Will you help us unite two lost souls?"

Charlie looked torn for a moment, then replied with a laugh, "Oh all right. But only because I'm so disproportionately fond of the both of you. And a sucker for a good love story."

"You are a prince among men, Charlie, you really are," Mycroft proclaimed, raising his glass in a toasting gesture, "To Charlie, our own personal Cupid!"

"Here, here," Lestrade seconded enthusiastically, "To Charlie!"

Charlie rolled his eyes and raised his glass as well, and the three of them toasted boisterously to their new matchmaking adventure.

Three hours and as many rounds later, they were lining up condiments and pub snacks in an attempt to figure out a plan.

"All right, now, let's put Sherlock in the flat," Mycroft said, picking up the salt and placing it at one end of the bar."

"Wait, wait," Lestrade objected, grabbing the salt shaker, "I thought John was the salt - Sherlock was the pepper."

"No, no, Gregory," Mycroft corrected, only a little tipsily, "We had a vote and it was decided that John is the pepper because he's a doctor."

"Fine," Lestrade said sulkily, "Then I get to be the hot sauce."

"That seems more than appropriate," Mycroft said, with a gleam in his eye that caused Lestrade to grin back at him impishly.

"All right, you two; less flirting, more planning, if you please," Charlie demanded, emphasizing his words by smacking his hand on the bar.

"Sorry, Charlie," they both mumbled, sneaking little glances at each other like guilty schoolboys.

"Sherlock is the salt," Charlie continued, trying to get the meeting back on track, "he's in Baker Street over here at the left end of the bar, now where is John?"

"Right," said Mycroft, returning eagerly to scheming, "So John starts at Baker Street with the salt, er - Sherlock."

"Dr. Pepper!" Lestrade exclaimed suddenly, "That's brilliant!"

Mycroft laughed, and Charlie put the tray of lagers on the other side of the bar, saying "That is clearly enough drinking for you. What's next, Mycroft?"

"By this point, I will have arranged all the players precisely where I want them. Earlier in the day, Sherlock and I," he said, picking up the salt and a small shot glass to represent himself, "will have had a little chat which is to start the ball rolling. I shall tell him that I have the perfect woman for him - gorgeous, ph.D in chemistry, morbid sense of humor - the whole package. He shall, of course, say something scathing and refuse to even meet her. Later, however, he will want to relate the incident to John in order to mock my powers of observation and proclaim once and for all that he is the superior Holmes. And this is what will really put everything into motion."

"You think that John will ask him why he said no," said Lestrade slowly, putting the pieces together, "and Sherlock will say something typically dense and Sherlockian about being married to his work."

"At which point," Mycroft continued, "I predict John will ask him something about if he could ever see himself being with someone, to which Sherlock will say no, because he's a stubborn idiot who doesn't realize that he's already halfway in love with John."

"But which John will take at face value because it's what he's been terrified of this whole time," Lestrade finished for him.

Charlie's head jerked up suddenly at the sound of the bell above the door, and he muttered, "Uh oh," as the door opened to reveal a determined-looking German couple holding a map. "Tourists doing a pub tour, I suspect," he said in a low tone, "I'm going to go try and tell them that we're closed using the ten or so words of German I recall from university. Wish me luck." With a shouted "Guten Abend!' to the couple, he was off and running toward the door.

While Charlie dealt with the tourists, Lestrade took some time to contemplate the plan. Finally, he turned to Mycroft and asked, frowning, "Mycroft, isn't this a little cruel? Forcing a confrontation like this between the two of them?"

"The course of true love, dear Gregory, never did run smooth," quoted Mycroft, laying a reassuring hand on top of Lestrade's. "It's all going to come out sooner or later - probably sooner knowing my brother - and it's best done in an environment where we can channel the results productively."

"I suppose," Lestrade admitted reluctantly, "I just hate the thought of doing that to John - making him feel that way."

"I know," Mycroft said softly, brushing Lestrade's cheek with his hand. "And that instinct of never wanting to hurt people - even if it's for their own good - is one of the things I love about you."

Lestrade smiled and leaned over to kiss him, and they stayed like that until they heard Charlie finally convince the tourists that the "Red Lion" really was much better anyway, and they should finish their evening off there.

As he returned to the bar with a sigh and an eyeroll, Charlie looked at Mycroft and observed, "This plan on yours depends on you knowing an awful lot about your brother and his flatmate: how they'll react to situations, even what they'll say. That's an awfully flimsy foundation for a scheme this complicated."

"Ah, but you forget, Charlie," Mycroft noted, with an admonishing gesture of his index finger, "I work for the government. You would be shocked and appalled to know how many invasions and peace negotiations were begun with far less reliable predictions."

"Well, that does make me feel better," Charlie said sarcastically. "All right, let's assume all of this goes down exactly or close enough to how you say it will. John will be upset, and he will presumably want a drink. That part, I will grant you, is easy enough to predict. How do we ensure that he comes here to get it?"

"Ah," said Mycroft after a pause, "Therein lies the the catch. I just can't get my head around how to get him from here," he picked the pepper shaker up from the bar, "to here," and put it down again on a napkin he had placed a foot to the right of where the salt currently rested.

"You know," Lestrade said thoughtfully, picking up a pretzel from a bowl of snacks on the bar, "If we had a fourth man, he could be responsible for getting John from Baker Street to here. Pose as a cabbie who got the address wrong or something."

"Of course!" shouted Mycroft excitedly, "Gregory, you astound me sometimes, you really do. A cabbie would work perfectly! Now, I believe that John normally frequents a pub called the King's Arms," he continued, reaching for the box on his left to consult his notes for confirmation.

"Ah yes, here it is, he usually goes there once or twice a week, three or four times lately. King's Arms is close enough to Carpenter's Arms that our man could pretend it was a simple mistake, then feed John some line about the King's Arms being closed that night anyway for fumigation or a birthday party or the like."

"But who could we possibly convince to be our fourth man on this mad venture?" Lestrade pondered, turning the pretzel over in his hand.

As if on cue, the bell above the door jangled once more, and this time a handsome, sandy-haired man walked in. "Evening, all!" he called out in a pleasant baritone.

"Jim! What perfect timing you have!" Charlie exclaimed, exchanging a meaningful glance with Mycroft and Lestrade before dashing over to give his husband an extravagant kiss hello.

"My goodness, I must remember to drop by here more often," remarked Jim in surprise, wrapping an arm around Charlie's waist before turning to Mycroft and Lestrade. "And with you keeping such good company as well! Hello, you two!"

"Hello Jim," said Mycroft, jumping up to give him a friendly handshake, "How's the new assignment on the Olympic Subcommittee? Security coming along all right for the big conference next week?"

"Oh, it's ghastly!" Jim exclaimed, "I don't know how you fellows deal with this sort of thing on a daily basis. I swear, it's taken a year off my life."

"Yes, organizing conferences sounds terribly trying," Lestrade said drolly, "I'm thankful every day I only have to catch murderers."

"So you should be!" retorted Jim, "Give me killers over diplomats any day!"

"Here, here!" seconded Mycroft, raising his glass to Jim before grinning a bit sheepishly and lowering it again after Lestrade shot him a pointed glance.

"You boys and your shop talk" said Charlie with a roll of the eyes, "We have much more important matters to discuss."

"Do we?" asked Jim in surprise, "I just came by for a drink."

"And you shall have one," Charlie promised, "You just have to agree to a tiny, little favor first."

"The last time I agreed to a tiny, little favor, I had a Welsh footballer sleeping on my couch for a week," he remarked dryly.

"Oh, it's nothing like that," Charlie promised innocently, "We just need you to give a friend a ride here from his flat."

"Where is his flat, France?" Jim asked suspiciously

Charlie gave him a good-natured whack on the shoulder and said, "Of course not! It's just over on Baker Street. A ten minute drive at most."

"And that's it, then, just give this pal of yours a ride?" Jim asked, still looking wary.

"Well, perhaps it is a little bit more complicated than that," Charlie admitted, but added quickly as Jim began to protest," But it's for such a good cause!"

"And what cause would that be, hmm?" Jim asked.

"The most noble of all possible causes: uniting two star-crossed lovers," Charlie replied dramatically, turning to wrap his arms around Jim's neck and stare pleadingly into his eyes. "Please, darling, say you'll help."

Jim did his best to build the suspense by looking stern, but it was patently obvious he would have done anything for Charlie.

"Oh, of course I'll help," he said with a grin. "I could never say no to you. Besides, knowing you three, it's bound to be trouble, and someone has to be along to keep you all out of jail."

"Isn't he just marvelous?" Charlie said with a grin aimed at Mycroft and Lestrade then gave Jim another kiss.

After Charlie had released him to fetch them all more drinks, Jim sat down on the stool next to Lestrade and asked, "Now then, what's the plan and where do I come in?" rubbing his hands together excitedly as he spoke.

Over the next hour, the three of them filled Jim in on the plan, complete with a full demonstration of the appropriate positions of the various props, after which Lestrade challenged Charlie to a game of darts which the latter was unable to persuade him out of.

Jim and Mycroft remained at the bar, drinking their last lagers in a companionable silence. After staring thoughtfully off into the distance for a little while, Jim sat back on his stool and said, "It occurs to me that this is a hell of a lot of trouble to go to just to find out what this John Watson is thinking."

"Knowing what's going on with John is just the first step," Mycroft said with a sigh, "It's equally important to get Sherlock to see that John's going through something, even if he doesn't understand exactly what. I'm just afraid if something doesn't happen soon, they'll just keep going round each other in circles forever. That's not going to make either of them happy in the long run."

"But I know this isn't your fight, Jim," Mycroft continued, "You don't have to do all this if you don't want to; we can find somebody else."

"You'd better not!" Jim exclaimed firmly. "Mycroft, I like you a lot, and I'm glad to do you a favor, especially one that involves a bit of mischief and a good cause. But more importantly, you make Greg happier than I think I've ever seen him, and that's worth a hell of a lot to me. So you get me the cap and the taxi, and I'll be the most convincing cabbie you or John Watson has ever seen."

Mycroft was touched, and he clapped Jim on the shoulder as he said, "Thanks, Jim. That means a lot coming from you."

Jim smiled as he said, "Don't mention it. At least not to Greg - don't want him thinking I've gone soft."

"Mum's the word," Mycroft promised, just as Lestrade and Charlie re-entered the room.

"I told you that you weren't good enough yet to play on the real board, but oh no, you just love ruining my plaster," Charlie said in a huff as he strode back behind the bar.

"But Mycroft's been teaching me!" Lestrade protested, "I've gotten better, haven't I, Mycroft?"

"Of course you have, Gregory," he said positively, "Much better," shaking his head fervently from side to side at Charlie the second Lestrade had turned toward his back.

This caused Charlie and Jim to have a hard time stifling their giggles, so Mycroft stood quickly and announced, in the grand tone he reserved for special occasions, "Gentlemen, I propose a toast. To Operation Casablanca!"

"And to Sherlock and John!" Charlie seconded. "May they be happy enough together not to kill us when they figure all this out!"

"And to the course of true love," Lestrade finished, "May it run smooth just this once."

After they had all clinked their glasses together and downed the last of the beer, Jim placed his

down on the bar, looked round at each of them conspiratorially, and declared, "Gentlemen, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."


	7. The Best Laid Plans of Rick and Ilsa

"Ilsa, come in, Ilsa, can you hear me?" Jim asked into the microphone embedded behind the rear view mirror of the rented taxi.

His voice spilled into the Carpenter's Arms from the portable speaker Mycroft had set up in Charlie's office. "Coming in loud and clear, Louis," Mycroft replied into the microphone situated on Charlie's desk, feeding his voice discretely into the earpiece he had given Jim.

"I still don't understand why you volunteered to be Ilsa," Lestrade said, covering the microphone with his hand.

"Well, because," Mycroft defended, "she was the most complicated character in the film and a strong woman and a patriot and...I just happen to think Ingrid Bergman's fabulous, so if you would stop giving me that smug look, I would very much appreciate it."

"I didn't say a thing!" Lestrade protested, raising his hands, although his impish smile implied that Mycroft's rebuke had been quite accurate.

"Pepper and Salt are still in the Refrigerator," Jim announced cryptically.

"I maintain, the code names have gotten out of hand," Lestrade argued to Mycroft, "They made sense when we were plotting this out using seasonings, but now it's just strange. And besides, you don't keep pepper and salt in a refrigerator,"

"I would ask you to please keep your comments civil and on task," Mycroft said stiffly. "The code name system is a necessary part of keeping operations secret. And you are just being nitpicky about the refrigerator.

"Red alert, red alert, Pepper is yelling at Salt. Yes, definitely an argument going on there. Salt is storming out!" Jim's voice crescendoed excitedly as he gave them the play-by-play.

"All right, Louis, it's go time!" Mycroft said authoritatively. "Remember, just keep talking - it'll distract him from the route."

"Got it!" Jim said brightly. Switching into an overblown cockney accent, he added, "'E won't know what 'it 'im!"

"Don't overdo it, Jim," Lestrade advised quickly, correcting at a raised eyebrow from Mycroft, "Er...Louis. Keep it simple."

"Rick, you never were any fun," Jim said in mock despair, "But fine, I'll turn it down a few notches. All right, my light is on, I'm inching closer to the flat...ah, here he is, out the door, and...yes, he's hailing me!"

Back at the bar, Mycroft pulled his arm back in a celebratory gesture.

"Evening, sir, and a beautiful evening it is, too. Where can I take you tonight?" they heard Jim ask, his voice betraying only a glimmer of its former cockney inflection.

"Uh, King's Arms," came a fainter voice, which Mycroft and Lestrade recognized as John's, albeit lacking the spark of humor it usually possessed.

"Oh, yes, sir, fine establishment, fine establishment," Jim prattled on determinedly as he pulled away from the curb, "My brother-in-law, great chap, been married to my sister, twenty, no, can't be twenty, must be fifteen years ago this May, he used to go there every night he had free. Played the fruit machine so often he still has the record. You play the fruit machine much, sir?"

"Hmm?" John asked distractedly, "No, I"m more of a billiards man myself."

"Ah yes, sir," Jim continued, knowingly, "Billiards, now that's a fine game, fine game. I used to have quite a hand at it myself, when I was a younger man, of course. Can't manage it these days, bad back you know, but once upon a time, I could sink three balls with a single shot, on one glorious occasion even four. Hand to my heart, I struck that cue ball and four others hurtled off into four separate pockets. Put the bloke I was playing with in his place, I can tell you that."

As Jim continued to chunter on about an imaginary billiards game he once played, Mycroft covered the microphone with his hand and exclaimed excitedly, "My God, Jim is made for this!"

"He always loved acting at school," Lestrade recalled, "Gave a truly moving Ophelia, too, although if I remember rightly he hammed up the suicide scene a bit too much."

Mycroft laughed and leaned over the microphone to address Jim, "You're doing marvelously, Louis, you should be nearly there now. Just bring it home."

"Here you are, sir, Carpenter's Arms," Jim said pleasantly, pulling the taxi up to the curb.

"Carpenter's Arms?" John asked confusedly, suddenly looking around, "No, no, I wanted King's Arms."

"Oh no, not King's Arms, sir, not tonight. Small kitchen fire they had there, so my friend in the know tells me, and they'll be closed until Sunday next. Don't you worry, sir, Carpenter's Arms is a fine place, as I said; just ask for Charlie and he'll take care of you."

Back in Charlie's office, Mycroft and Lestrade both leaned in toward the speaker in anticipation, having reached the only part of the plan that required John's full compliance.

"Yes, all right," John acquiesced finally, handing Jim a tenner, "Thank you."

Mycroft jumped up and was about to give a celebratory shout when a sharp head shake from Lestrade reminded him that they were about to be within earshot of John. Instead, he quickly pressed a switch on the microphone and whispered, "Sam, the pepper is on the table, your turn."

"Roger that, Ilsa, pepper sighted," came Charlie's whispered voice from the other room.

"Evening, sir, what can I get you?" he asked John pleasantly, as Mycroft and Lestrade crowded around the hole in Charlie's office wall which Lestrade had conveniently made with a dart some weeks prior.

"Whiskey, and keep them coming," John said, sitting down, then adding as if it were an afterthought, "You wouldn't happen to be Charlie by any chance, would you?"

"Sure am, sir!" Charlie replied cheerfully, "Who told you to ask for me?"

"The cabbie," John said, turning to motion toward the door, "Oh, I didn't catch his name."

"Handsome devil, could talk both your ears off in under a minute?" Charlie asked him knowingly.

John nodded vigorously, "Yes, that sounds like him."

Charlie laughed and said, "That'd be Louis. Wonderful chap, comes in here most of his nights off, but wind him up and he'll chunter on forever. Here's your whiskey, sir, just holler when you're ready for a second."

As Charlie was called away from his objective by a group of girlfriends out for a night on the town, Mycroft and Lestrade watched John down his whiskey in a single gulp and place the tumbler a little too forcefully down on the bar. The mask of politeness he had been wearing was starting to slip, and the weariness and hurt were seeping through.

Having mixed two appletinis, three cosmpolitans, and a vodka cranberry in record time, Charlie returned swiftly to John, who hit the bar to signal his need for a refill.

"Rough night, sir?" Charlie asked quietly as he poured him another, making it a double when John tapped the bar again.

"You could say that," John said with a bitter little laugh, taking the whiskey and downing this one in a single drought as well, then looked meaningfully at Charlie.

Charlie said nothing, but slowly poured him another and waited, possessed of an experienced bartender's knowledge that after a hard day and three whiskeys, no further impetus for soul-baring would be necessary.

He slid the third drink in front of John, who picked it up, but this time took only a sip, swirling the remainder contemplatively around the tumbler. "You ever been in love with a genius, Charlie?" he said, seemingly hypnotized by the amber of the whiskey in his glass.

"No, I can't say that I have," Charlie replied, wiping down the bar with a rag.

"I would not recommend it," John said, taking another sip, "Especially if he is also a complete idiot."

"That does sound awfully complicated," Charlie said companionably.

"But it's not his fault," John declared, setting his glass on the bar with a clink, "No, it's my fault - I'm the bigger idiot. He warned me the day I met him, and I didn't listen."

"Warned you?" Charlie prompted.

"'I'm married to my work,' he said to me, I said 'fine.' He left me at a crime scene, and I just walked back to him. Then his brother - a real piece of work, let me tell you that - essentially kidnapped me!"

At this point, Lestrade shot an incredulous look over at Mycroft, who waved him off impatiently and resumed watching the unfolding scene.

"Did he now?" Charlie asked, trying to hide his smile.

"Yes!" John exclaimed, "He impelled me into a black limousine, drove me to a warehouse, then offered me money to spy on his brother!"

Again, Lestrade looked in surprise at Mycroft, who shot him a look clearly conveying, "This is not the time."

"My, my, he does sound like a strange chap," said Charlie seriously.

"And this doesn't stop me or give me pause, oh no," John barreled on, "I don't even have the good sense to take the money! No, I tell him to go hang himself, and in the process throw my lot in with an oblivious genius and his mad brother." He finished his drink, and Charlie quickly poured him another.

"If I may ask, why did you stay, then?" Charlie prodded, leaning forward on the bar.

"Because after wandering around this city like a zombie for weeks, feeling suffocated by the grey mundanity of it all, suddenly I felt alive again, all because of him. He'd say, "Come on, John," and I would go, not caring whether we were chasing a taxi for twelve blocks on a hunch or following a complete stranger because the monogram on his handkerchief didn't match the one on his briefcase. During our first strange meeting, that brother I was telling you about, Mycroft, said that walking with Sherlock Holmes, I would see the battlefield, and he was right about that bit at least; London suddenly became every bit as intoxicating and exotic to me as Afghanistan once was."

"But as you're sitting here drowning your sorrows in whiskey, I'm guessing that wasn't enough, was it?" Charlie asked sagely.

"It was at first, when I was just another army doctor unable to cope with being stuck outside the war zone. But time passed, somehow the grey of the city filled in with colors, and I needed the thrill a little less each day. Oh sure, I still enjoyed the excitement and the danger, but it no longer felt like the only thing keeping me going."

"But you stayed...for him," Charlie deduced.

"I told myself that I couldn't leave, that he would starve to death because he found grocery shopping unbearably dull or get shot because it wouldn't occur to him not to wander around the park when he couldn't sleep at three in the morning. But I realize now I was kidding myself. I didn't stay because he needed me; I stayed because I needed him, in so many ways he may never understand."

"You fell in love with him," Charlie said softly, by now thoroughly engrossed in the story.

"Yes," John said simply. "It seemed like every time I got fed up and said to myself, "Bugger it, you don't need this in your life," out of the corner of my eye, I'd see him looking at me, really looking, like he was seeing me for the first time. And even though these looks never lasted more than a second, never long enough even for me to be sure they were really there, it was enough to make me stay in the hopes of seeing another one. Stupid."

"Some would say romantic," Charlie ventured.

"Romantic? Romantic?" John asked animatedly, gesticulating wildly with his luckily empty glass. "I might as well be romantic with an armchair for all the good it'll do me. Do you know why I'm here tonight 'drowning my sorrows,' as you call it? Well, I'll tell you - it all started when Mycroft tried to set him up with some woman, and he came home ranting and raving about it. And do you know what he said to me? 'John,' he said, 'my brother has obviously lost his mind if he thinks that I would want to waste an ounce of my mental acuity on any woman. I don't care how many phDs she has."

"Well, that could be a good sign," Charlie tried helpfully, "He clearly doesn't...play for the other team, so to speak."

"That's what I was hoping, too, idiotic fool that I am," John said with a sigh, "until he kept on about it. 'Mycroft thinks he's so clever, but he can't even understand that a truly great mind has no need for physical companionship.'"

"If it's just the physical side he doesn't want, then maybe..." Charlie attempted.

"Oh, he wasn't finished," John replied, raising his hand in a stopping gesture, "I asked him about that. I said 'That's just sex, Sherlock, what about love?' And do you know what he did? He actually laughed out loud at the thought of it. 'Love?' he said to me, 'Good God, John, love is worse! The most illogical emotion of them all. At least sex fulfills some basic biological functions - propagating the species, seratonin production, and the like. Love has no such purpose - it only hampers the deductive reasoning. It is for dull, unimpressive minds who can't properly think, so they settle for feeling. No, thank you very much, I think I'll pass."

"Good God, he said all that to you?" asked Charlie, horrified. "Did he say anything else?"

"I don't know," returned John wearily, "I couldn't listen to any more of it. I just muttered something to him - I don't even remember what - and ran out of the flat, my head spinning with how thoroughly stupid I'd been and what a dunce he'd think I was if he ever found out. I hailed the first cab I saw, which happened to be driven by your well-meaning, but hard-of-hearing friend Louis and wound up here." He stared miserably down at his empty glass, which Charlie quietly filled with a sixth whiskey, and finished, "I'd never even owned up to it aloud before tonight, and here I am making a fool of myself, telling you the whole stupid story."

"Nothing of the kind," Charlie said comfortingly, patting John lightly on the hand, "I just wish that I could do more to help than listen."

John smiled a little and said, "That's kind of you, Charlie, but there's nothing anyone can do. I have to face facts: I'm in love with a man who doesn't believe in love, probably isn't capable of it, and might not even feel it for me if he were. And the thing is, I don't think I can do it much longer. A buddy of mine in Sussex offered me a job a few weeks back: good work, good pay, and in a very pleasant little village. I tried to turn it down flat, but he told me to take until the end of the month to think about it. It might be just the fresh start that I need."

"Are you sure you want to give up everything you have here?" Charlie asked hurriedly, with a quick glance toward his office door, behind which Mycroft and Lestrade were exchanging worried looks.

"But what do I really have here, Charlie? A job which I am which I am constantly missing or screwing up from spending all my time chasing criminals, a few old friends who can do nothing but pity me, a sister who spends too much time at the bottom of her own whiskey bottle to worry about my problems, and an oblivious flatmate who can go for days on end barely registering my existence and whom I'm so in love with sometimes it hurts to look at him. No, goddamn it, no more! Barring a miracle or a sign from the heavens, I'm off to Sussex next month. Sherlock will be miffed that he'll have to go through the bother of finding a new flatmate, but his little eccentricities will by then no longer be my concern."

He finished off his final whiskey and said, "Thanks for the drinks and the sympathetic ear, Charlie, how much do I owe you?"

Charlie waved him off and said, "I'll start up a tab so you'll come back and see me before you go."

John smiled and said, "That's a promise," before turning to go.

"And John?" Charlie called out as John swung a bit tipsily around. "Don't discount miracles just yet. Some errant god of love may still take pity on you."

John gave a laugh, sounding more melancholy than amused, and, with a quick, drunken salute to Charlie, went stumbling into the darkness to find a taxi.

After waiting a few minutes to make sure John would not return for some possession forgotten in haste, Mycroft and Lestrade burst out of the office just as Jim was strolling into the pub, cabbie cap in hand.

"Well, how did it go?" he asked excitedly.

"As planned, I suppose," admitted Lestrade, taking a seat. "He came in, got drunk, spilled his guts to Charlie, and left again."

"The only problem," Mycroft continued for him, plopping himself down on the adjacent bar stool, "is that my ploy to make Sherlock say something insensitive worked a little too well. He apparently went into a whole monologue to John about how love was for fools, and now John's decided that the whole affair is a lost cause and is planning on taking a job in Sussex."

"Not to be indelicate, Mycroft," Charlie interjected, "but your brother seems to me to be a bit of a bastard. Are you absolutely sure he's in love with John? If you're wrong about this and we keep pushing, we may do John some permanent damage.

"I'm sure," Mycroft replied firmly, turning to face him. "I know my brother, Charlie, I used to be just like him - the mind was everything, love was for fools, loneliness just sharpened the mental processes. But as I got older and a little wiser, just using my mind stopped being enough.

"Luckily, I was able to wait for my first real shot at happiness," he continued, with a sideways glance at Lestrade, who was giving him a look Mycroft couldn't quite read, "but I'm afraid Sherlock doesn't have the same luxury. My brother's exceedingly smart, Charlie, but he's not wise; he can't understand what he's feeling for John because it's not logical, it's not a puzzle he can solve and then be done with. So he gets afraid and lashes out, because underneath all that brilliance, there are some parts of him that never grew up.

"But mark my words, if John leaves, it'll be all over for him; he'll retreat back into his cave of reason and never come out again. I can't let that happen to him, Charlie, he's my brother; especially not now that I know what kind of a life he could have if he tried. And certainly not without a fight."

"So we'll fight," Lestrade said quietly, taking Mycroft's hand, "If nothing else, this little exercise of ours has shown us just how high the stakes are. If we don't do something in the next few weeks, it'll be over for both of them. So let's hear them, gentlemen, the Hail Mary passes, the big ideas; I'm talking fireworks, balloons, violins -"

"Of course!" Mycroft exclaimed suddenly, leaping out of his stool, "Violins! The LSO's putting on Dvorak next week. Sherlock would not be able to resist going to see his Violin Concerto in A Minor for anything, especially if the tickets were already provided. The concert will provide a perfect backdrop for settling this thing once and for all."

"Well, you've brought me round, Mycroft, I'm in for round two if you need me," Charlie said.

"Me, too!" declared Jim, "We can't let it end like this! Not after all the planning we've done."

Mycroft grinned and said, "All right, we have the setting, now we just need the plan."

"Which we will hash out another night," Lestrade interrupted. "For now, it's late, and Mycroft at least has to work in the morning."

"Yes, go on you two, I'll keep Charlie company until closing," Jim said, waving them off with his hand, "How's Friday for a meeting of the conspirators?"

"Perfect," Mycroft said, "We can do it at my place. And thank you both so much for tonight; you were wonderful, and I couldn't have done it without either of you."

"Our pleasure," Charlie said gallantly, "John seems a good bloke, and I'm glad to help him get his happy ending. Now off with you, get some rest, and we'll see you on Friday."

With the goodbyes said, Mycroft and Lestrade began walking out of the Carpenter's Arms toward Lestrade's beat-up Volvo.

"Gregory, you know I don't have to work in the morning-" was all Mycroft got out before Lestrade pressed him into the brick wall of the alley next to the pub in a fierce kiss.

Mycroft gave in immediately and returned it, wrapping his arms around Lestrade. They went on like that for a few minutes until forced to come up for air, with neither pulling apart more than a few inches.

"What was that for?" Mycroft asked, looking up at him, breathing still a little rough.

Lestrade looked at him intently for a couple seconds, then said a bit bashfully, "What you said back there...you're my first real shot at happiness, too. I love you, Mycroft. Just thought you should know."

Mycroft smiled broadly and pounced on him again, wrapping his arms tightly around Lestrade's neck and pulling him close. When they finally pulled apart, he looked up at Lestrade once more and said seriously, "I love you, too, you know. Even if you are rubbish at darts."

Lestrade laughed, kissed him quickly, then wrapped an army tightly around Mycroft's waist as they began strolling leisurely toward the car. Mycroft lay his head on Lestrade's shoulder, curling his left arm around his waist, and asked contemplatively, "Why did you want to cry off early tonight?"

"Because we've been doing a lot of planning this week, and I wanted you all to myself, at least for tonight," Lestrade replied, placing a light kiss on Mycroft's forehead. "If that suits you all right."

Mycroft smiled happily, wrapped his other arm around Lestrade's waist as well, and snuggled in close, saying, "Yes, Gregory, that suits me very well indeed."


	8. The End of the World As We Know It

**Author's Note: Hey, everybody! I finally just finished the last real chapter of this fic, and I have to say, I'm a little sad. Thanks so much to all of you who read and reviewed - it's been wonderful to hear your thoughts. **At some point, I'm planning on adding an epilogue, so I hope to so you all again, then, but fo**r now, enjoy the thrilling conclusion to the plots of the Casablanca Gang!**

"I really don't understand how you can dress like this all the time," Lestrade said, trying in vain to make his bow tie look as crisp as Mycroft's.

"Oh, here, let me, you'll wrinkle the silk," Mycroft replied exasperatedly, stepping in to help, "Of all the facets of my job, the bit that baffles you is the formal wear?"

"Well, international intrigue isn't so far from my job," Lestrade defended, "If you gave me a bomb threat or a heated peace negotiation, I like to think I could handle it. But this? Handshaking and concerts and silk ties? Totally out of my sphere."

"It's a shame, really," Mycroft concluded thoughtfully, putting the finishing touches on Lestrade's tie, "You do look so dashing in a tuxedo."

"Oh, do I?" Lestrade asked, his eyes suddenly glinting. "You know, keeping in mind that you just spent an hour getting dressed, it seems awfully foolhardy for you to say things that make me want to rip your clothes off."

Mycroft's eyes widened infinitesimally at this, and his face took on an expression of equal parts fear and interest.

"Now, Gregory," he said carefully while backing away slowly, "We have an _allegro_ movement to be listening to in forty five minutes. It would take at least that long for me to even get your tie back in proper order."

Lestrade, not in the least convinced, inched closer to him, gaze becoming more and more predatory, and said, "What do you say we skip the _allegro_, sneak in during the second movement, and settle for my tie being in improper order?"

"But the plan, Sherlock and John..." Mycroft protested.

"Are going to be more than adequately looked after by your driver," Lestrade finished for him. "Our bit doesn't enter into it until intermission, anyway. And should anything unexpected occur," he continued, anticipating Mycroft's next protest, "Charlie and Jim are on hand."

"You're just trying to get out of wearing that tuxedo," Mycroft observed wryly.

"Maybe," Lestrade replied with a wicked grin as he began removing his jacket. "Is it working?"

Mycroft stepped forward, paused for a tantalizing moment, then with a flourish flicked Lestrade's tie undone and murmured, "Oh quite well indeed," before crashing his lips down on Lestrade's.

Lestrade responded by slipping Mycroft's tuxedo jacket off his shoulders, dropping it gently on the footstool when he heard the anguished little noise Mycroft was emitting at the thought of having it wrinkled, and maneuvering them both toward the bed. Mycroft finished the thought by tumbling them both down on his gray silk duvet, never once taking his hands off Lestrade.

With the dress clothes he had just painstakingly donned flying everywhere, Mycroft realized for the very first time in life, at some point in between when Lestrade starting nibbling his way down the nape of his neck and when he reached his sternum, that even to a gentleman, some things really did take precedence over an impeccable toilette.

One hour, some very hurried redressing, and both the _allegro_ and _adagio_ movements later, Mycroft and Lestrade snuck guiltily into their seats on the balcony of the theatre like two teenagers returning to class after an illicit smoke break.

"Have you found them?" Mycroft whispered, peering through his opera glasses.

"Not yet," Lestrade whispered back, glancing over the crowd.

"Ah, wait, I see them!" Mycroft exclaimed suddenly, nearly jumping up in his seat to have a better look, but thinking the better of it upon seeing the imperious glance given to him by the lady in the adjacent seat. He pointed hurriedly to the center of the lower section and held up the opera glasses so Lestrade could look.

Through them, Lestrade saw Sherlock, eyes closed, swaying slightly in time with the music. While it was very apparent that Sherlock was entirely wrapped up in the music, it was equally obvious that John was just as entranced with Sherlock. Although he started by pretending to focus his attention on the stage, sneaking only the occasional covert glance at his flatmate, by the climax of the final movement, he was staring unblinkingly at Sherlock.

"He's feeling guilty about leaving and even worse about not telling him yet," Mycroft murmured in Lestrade's ear.

"How on earth can you tell all that just by looking at them?" Lestrade asked skeptically.

"His expression is clearly adoration tinged with sadness, which equals regret, and what else would he have to regret?" Mycroft shot back.

"Touche," Lestrade ceded, "But where does that leave us?"

"Ready to implement part two of the plan," Mycroft replied, "What time do you have?"

"Quarter past nine," Lestrade whispered. "Charlie and John should be making their way to the cloakroom right about now."

"Good," said Mycroft, "Let's go and meet them." With Lestrade behind him, he began inching his way toward the exit, murmuring, "Pardon me," and "So very sorry," and even one, "Touchy bladder you know," before spilling out into the aisle and darting from the balcony. The two of them made their way swiftly down the plushly carpeted hallway and snuck quickly behind the red velvet curtain at the end. Behind it, they found Charlie and Jim having a heated argument about their costumes for the evening's festivities.

"This is what people wear to concerts, Charlie!" Jim defended, gesticulating wildly with his hands, which were encased in white opera gloves.

"You have a monocle!" Charlie shouted back.

"Would you two keep it down in here?" Mycroft hissed, "There is a concert going on, you know."

"Thank goodness, voices of reason!" Charlie exclaimed, lowering his voice and turning to them. "Would you two please tell the Phantom of the Opera here that his outfit's going to give the game away?"

"The false moustache is a bit much," Lestrade admitted.

"I think the top hat's quite dashing, though," Mycroft added. "Costuming aside, is everything in place?"

"I believe so," Charlie replied with a last reproachful glance at Jim, who merely tapped the ground twice with his silver walking stick defiantly. "Sherlock and John are busy watching the concert and when intermission hits, Jim will intercept them at the bar and - "

Charlie was interrupted in his explanation by the rapid entrance of two visitors into the cloakroom, and the four of them watched in growing horror as Sherlock and John walked swiftly in their direction, arguing the whole way.

"I just don't see why you couldn't wait until intermission to get your phone," John was saying.

"It's perfectly simple, John," Sherlock replied, sounding bored, "The conductor's slight hesitation in signaling the timpani recalled to me the way the dead stockbroker's brother paused for a fraction of a second when I mentioned the missing saxophone. Now I realize of course he was never his brother at all, and I must phone Brazil to confirm."

Upon seeing the four conspirators, who were trying desperately to shift their expressions from alarm to casual surprise, the two of them stopped short. John's expression conveyed mere perplexity, but it was with a look of pure suspicion that Sherlock fixed his gaze immediately upon his brother.

"Mycroft. Should have known you'd be here," he said, eyes narrowed.

"Yes," said Mycroft lightly, hoping to play it off as a coincidence. "Gregory here lost a bet, so I got to subject him to an evening of higher culture. We were just retrieving our coats and -"

"Charlie?" John asked suddenly, his eyes lighting up in recognition, "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, hello, John!" Charlie said with a wave, speaking quickly, "You know how it is, saw an advert in the paper, didn't have anything to do..."

"How do you know Mycroft?" John asked, confused.

"Know him? Oh, well, I don't really, I mean..." Charlie mumbled, unsure of the best tact to take.

"Nonsense, you must," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

Charlie looked startled and managed to stammer out, "Oh, m-must I?"

"You're married to his boyfriend's best friend, I'd have thought that your paths would have crossed at least once or twice," Sherlock replied dryly.

Charlie's eyes widened with shock as John turned to Sherlock and asked confusedly, "What are you talking about?"

"It's Jim Stevens, isn't it?" Sherlock said in lieu of a reply, turning to Jim, "We met at the CID Christmas party three years ago. If memory serves, you were sloshed enough to be wearing a Christmas wreath instead of a tie. As a result, when you ran into me by the buffet table, you had no hesitation in telling me all about your rubbish best friend who dragged you to the party and your marvelous new husband who had nevertheless refused to let you wear your blue sequin dinner jacket for the occasion. You'll forgive me for not recalling sooner, I must confess to being a bit thrown off by the false moustache."

"Yes, well," Jim said bashfully, ripping the moustache off at placing it in his pocket, "how nice to see you again. I know you must be thinking it's a bit odd, me going around with detachable facial hair, false advertisement and all that, but the fact is I'd always wanted one, so when this do came up on the schedule, I said to myself, "Jim, old lad, what a perfect time to test out a moustache," so I popped on over to Marks and Sparks and -"

"Good Lord, you're my cabbie from the other night!" John nearly shouted, interrupting Jim's rambling monologue. "I didn't recognize you with the moustache, but I heard enough of your voice that night to know it anywhere. You told me your name was Louis!"

"Nonsense, John," Sherlock said impatiently, "You are clearly laboring under a misapprehension. This is Jim, who's the best mate of Inspector Lestrade over there and, judging by their matching silver and alabaster wedding rings, is married to the man you have already hailed as Charlie. All perfectly simple. The only thing which has thus far eluded me is why you seem to know them as an entirely different group of people and why they're all looking so terribly guilty about it. With only this much to go on, I can only assume this was some plan of Mycroft's, although as to its aim I must confess to being entirely in the dark."

While Sherlock was neatly unraveling the whole deception, John was growing paler by the second as things clicked into place, and by the time Sherlock ceased speaking was nearly shaking with anger and embarrassment.

He stepped forward and, his gaze glancing over each of them in turn, addressed them, his voice a bit shaky, "That terrible night two weeks ago, you must have planned it down to the last detail. Lucky for you that I'm such an idiot, I played right into your hands. And you did all that work just to get me to that bar, get me talking? I'd almost be flattered if I weren't furious. But none of you would have gotten involved on your own, not even you, Lestrade."

"No, this is all your doing," he continued, whirling on Mycroft, his voice getting louder, "Only a Holmes could have masterminded something that brilliant and callous. My God, you even set the ball rolling by pretending to set Sherlock up with that woman, knowing both of us well enough to predict the argument that would follow. It must be awfully fun to be you, Mycroft, having the resources and disposition to play God, laughing at us poor mortals as we try to muddle along and throwing something unexpected into the mix every now and again just to make your life a little more interesting."

Mycroft stepped forward to explain, to soothe; His hands were raised in supplication and his head bowed a little to convey regret, with the result being that he had no way of anticipating or avoiding John's right hook colliding sharply with his nose or the stream of blood and sharp stab of pain that followed.

John stood over him and shouted, "From now on, you can do it with someone else's life. I'm done."

As Lestrade knelt quickly to help Mycroft into a sitting position and place a handkerchief to his almost certainly broken nose, Sherlock stared at John in shock, having evidently not anticipated the pain his revelation would cause, and started hesitantly, "John, what...?"

"And you!" John shouted, turning to direct his anger at Sherlock, still shaking with rage, "You're worse than he is! I've spent all this time blaming myself for how I've been feeling, but, really, it's your fault! You just go around in your own little world, noticing me when you feel like it, when it suits you. For Christ's sakes, you told me that I was a replacement for your skull! You are the worst flatmate in the history of the world: you steal my clothes, you refuse to do the shopping, but the worst part, the very worst part is that you made me fall in love with you and didn't even have the decency to notice!"

John's eyes were filling with tears, but he seemed too upset to notice, barrelling on, "Well, I'm done, Sherlock, I'm done with all of it. I've taken a job in Sussex, and I leave next week. I guess you'll just have to find yourself another poor stiff to talk to!"

Without waiting for Sherlock to respond, John rushed from the room, leaving only a swinging red velvet curtain and five sharply dressed men with looks of utter shock on their faces. After a moment, Sherlock started turning toward the exit with the intent of pursuing him, but Lestrade quickly held up his hands and said, "No, I'll go. It's better that way," and strode swiftly out into the hallway. He saw John duck out onto the terrace overlooking the gardens and took a trip to the refreshment table to buy two beers and give John a few moments to collect himself.

After a couple minutes, he opened the door to the terrace and, finding John leaning on the banister and staring dejectedly at the beautiful ornamental garden beneath him, walked quietly up to him. He placed one of the beers next to John's elbow and sat down on the banister, opening the other beer and sipping it contemplatively

John said nothing, but accepted the alcoholic peace offering and took a long sip, all the while keeping his eyes fixated on the beautiful scene before him or his expression conveying utter despair.

They drank their beers in silence for quite a few minutes, but, finally, Lestrade broke the quiet, saying "If you think he doesn't love you, then you really are an idiot."

"Great apology, Lestrade, really, top notch," John said bitterly.

Lestrade ignored him and continued, "Remember the Carfax kidnapping case last month? When that lowlife McNair cold-cocked you with a pistol? You won't remember this bit - you were out for a good ten minutes - but Sherlock was a wreck."

John said nothing, but turned his head to look at Lestrade, his curiosity clearly piqued.

"I kept telling him it was just a bump and that you'd be fine, but he wouldn't have it. Just kept staring at you, pacing back and forth and inhaling these jerky little gasps of air; it was like he couldn't breathe properly until he saw you open your eyes again. When you finally came round, you were groggy for long enough that he could compose himself and pretend that nothing had happened. But I know what I saw."

"I don't...I mean, I can't...are you sure?" John stammered, eyes wide. "That doesn't sound like Sherlock."

"A year ago, I would have agreed with you," replied Lestrade, "Sherlock Holmes, behaving irrationally, trusting his emotions over sound, medical facts? Impossible, I would have said. But since he met you? You can't possibly know how much you've changed him, John."

John thought on this, then asked a bit dejectedly, "But what does that really change? I can't just take your word that he feels about me the way I feel about him. That's not enough to build a life on."

"No," agreed Lestrade, "But it might be if you hear it from him. Before you pack up your jumpers and your bruised heart and move to Sussex, at least have a real conversation with him. You owe both of you that much."

John looked at him for a moment, then finished off his beer, clapped Lestrade on the shoulder and turned to leave the terrace. He had taken only a couple of steps when he turned round and said, "I'm sorry I punched Mycroft."

Lestrade shot him a knowing look and said, "No, you're not."

John laughed and admitted, "No, you're right. I have been wanting to do that for ages."

A sudden sound at the terrace door had them both spinning round to look: it was Sherlock, his expression utterly unreadable. Whatever Sherlock's intentions, Lestrade knew that he would interfere with them, so after giving John an affirming nod, he slipped past Sherlock into the concert house and returned to the cloakroom in search of Mycroft. He found him sitting in the corner holding a piece of cloth to his nose.

"You look very pleased with yourself for a man with a lacy handkerchief holding his nose together," Lestrade remarked, gently lifting Mycroft's head to get a look at the damage. "Does this mean that you got through to your brother?"

Wincing only a little at the pain in his nose, Mycroft simply grinned back at him.

_30 minutes earlier._

As Lestrade rushed out in search of John, Jim and Charlie exchanged worried looks and slipped out as well, with Jim murmuring a quick, "We'll be at the bar if you need us," to Mycroft.

The second they were alone in the cloakroom, Sherlock whirled on Mycroft and asked angrily, "What the hell did you do to John? If he had not already taken care of it, dear brother, I might very well have been tempted to lower myself to physical violence."

"My goodness, Sherlock," Mycroft said calmly, "I had expected such a show of emotion from John, but from you? Most surprising indeed."

"Goddamn it, Mycroft, I'm not in the mood for your petty mind games!" Sherlock shot back, his voice coming dangerously close to shouting, "I know this is your doing, now out with it!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Sherlock," Mycroft said lightly, "it was merely a little experiment. I had a theory, and I asked Jim and Charlie to be my assistants in proving it. This involved some necessary, minor deceptions, which led to the confusion you witnessed on John's part about their true identities. As you are so fond of saying, perfectly simple."

"John is not a test subject, Mycroft! You can't just use people like animals in a lab!" Sherlock was actually shouting now, giving up on any attempts to control his temper.

"Don't you dare act morally outraged with me, Sherlock Holmes!" The calm in Mycroft's voice was now only thinly disguising the layer of cold steel beneath. "I have done nothing you haven't done yourself a thousand times, and we both know it."

"Not with John," Sherlock said fiercely, "Never with John."

"And why not?" Mycroft asked callously, staring unblinkingly at Sherlock, "He's just your flatmate. Things go wrong, you can surely get another one. Can't find one, it's of no real consequence. I'll pay half your rent and you can live by yourself; much better that way, anyways, no unnecessary distractions."

"John. Is. Not. An. Unnecessary. Distraction," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"All right," Mycroft countered, "What is he, then? What is he to you that can't be easily replaced?"

Sherlock paused in his tirade for the first time, as if he had never before considered the question. Finally, he said confidently, "He's someone to talk to,"

"Hardly that intimate of a connection. I'll pick you up another skull next time I'm at the curio shop, you can talk to it," Mycroft said easily.

"He's my flatmate," Sherlock tried again.

"That's merely a business arrangement, next, please," Mycroft parried.

"He's my...companion." The pauses between Sherlock's guesses were growing more and more pronounced.

"I'll find you a cat. You can stare moodily at each other for days on end not saying a thing, it'll be perfect for you," Mycroft said, neatly overturning his latest attempt.

"John is my...friend," Sherlock tried once more, by this point speaking as much to himself as to Mycroft.

"Now that's much closer," Mycroft replied encouragingly. "Implies a level of intimacy, familiarity.

But Sherlock, I want you to ask yourself, really ask yourself, if John is only your friend, why does the thought of him leaving cause you such an ache inside?"

"That doesn't prove anything," Sherlock defended, "Under the assumption that he is my friend, it is also safe to assume that the sudden deprivation of his presence would cause me some distress. Simple cause and effect."

"All right," Mycroft continued to probe, "If he is only your friend, why is he the first person in your thoughts in the morning and the last one on your mind at night."

"You can't possibly know any of that," Sherlock said, though he had grown a trifle paler

"Once the disease is known, the symptoms aren't hard to guess," Mycroft said sagely.

"Oh yes?" Sherlock challenged, "And what, pray tell, is my disease?"

"You know perfectly well," Mycroft replied evenly, looking him straight in the eye.

"If I know, then why are playing this infernal guessing game?" Sherlock shouted, exasperated.

"Because you're afraid," Mycroft said without hesitation, "Just like when you were ten years old and you told me that you'd seen a sea monster at the bottom of the lake and that's why you wouldn't swim in it - even though we both knew it was because you were afraid of drowning. But every day that summer, I sat on the side of that lake with you and pretended to respect the power of that imaginary sea monster because it would have hurt you to have to admit a human failing like fear."

"But, Sherlock," he continued urgently, standing and placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, "You are far too old to be playing pretend, and besides, there isn't time. The best thing to ever happen to you is about to walk straight out of your life, and trust me when I say that the consequences of that are far worse than any of the phantoms you've been afraid of all this time. So I ask you again, Sherlock, and for God's sake, consider your answer - what is John Watson to you?"

Sherlock stared at him for a full ten seconds, seemingly frozen except for the nearly imperceptible tremors running through his body, then said slowly, "Oh God, I'm in love with him, aren't I?" and sank despairingly into the nearest chair Mycroft could not remember ever having seen his brother look so panic-stricken over anything before.

He took a few paces to kneel by Sherlock's chair and look up at him, speaking earnestly, "Sherlock, I'm your brother, and whatever petty battles we engage in at any given moment, you have to know that I love you and that I want you to be happy."

Sherlock nodded slightly and muttered, "My limited knowledge of human emotions has yielded that much information, yes, Mycroft."

"Then you know that I'm only saying this for your own good," Mycroft continued sincerely. "You have to tell him. Right now, before he's gone forever."

"I'm terrified," Sherlock admitted. "I'm rubbish at feelings."

"I know it feels that way," Mycroft said sympathetically, "But that's how it's supposed to be. Badly designed if you ask me, but there you go. At this point, you've nothing to lose, and a whole world to gain."

Sherlock stared at him for a few moments, then shifted his gaze to the door and was up and out of the room in an instant. Mycroft had just extracted himself from his kneeling position and was in the process of looking for a fresh handkerchief for his nose when Sherlock burst back through the red velvet curtain and caught him in a fierce hug. Mycroft barely had time to react before Sherlock had murmured a quick "Thank you," and departed as quickly as he had come.

Mycroft felt a bubble of warmth spread through his chest and was consequently not in the least miffed that the only handkerchief he could find in any of the coats was an absurdly feminine one with embroidered violets. He was still grinning when Lestrade found him.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Lestrade asked impatiently, "We have to go see how it turns out!"

"How?" Mycroft asked, his voice a bit muffled by the embroidered cotton. "I didn't have time to plant a mic on either of them, not to mention the fact that my previous meddling resulted in this," he reminded Lestrade, motioning to his bloodied nose.

"Have you no faith in me, Mycroft?" Lestrade asked, his expression of mock hurt morphing quickly into a sly grin as he said, "Come on, then" and hoisted Mycroft carefully to his feet.

"Where are we going?" Mycroft whispered as Lestrade led him by the hand down the hallway.

"You'll see," Lestrade murmured back before bringing them to a halt in front of a well-hidden doorway that blended in perfectly with the wood paneling of the hallway. Before Mycroft could say anything further, Lestrade produced a small key, slipped it in the lock, opened the door, and ushered him inside. Closing the mysterious door behind them, Lestrade led Mycroft down a dark little hallway which to Mycroft's great surprise led directly onto a small terrace overlooking the gardens.

Mycroft was prevented from asking any of the hundreds of questions swarming round his brain by Lestrade lifting one index finger to his lips and using the other to point to the larger terrace next door, on which Mycroft was astonished to find Sherlock and John staring at each other.

They then crouched down so as to avoid detection, and Mycroft managed to get out a whispered, "How?"

"You put me in charge of recon," Lestrade said simply, "I found this place on the blueprints and thought it might be useful, so I bribed the janitor for a key."

"Fantastic," Mycroft marveled with an admiring shake of the head, before Lestrade shushed him and directed his attention once more toward the object of their machinations. Though Sherlock and John were a little distance away, the two could nevertheless make out their conversation, such as it was.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively, breaking the minutes long silence.

"I..." Sherlock started, then lapsed again into silence.

"Sherlock, I can't do this anymore," John said with a sigh, brushing past Sherlock toward the French doors leading off the terrace.

"I lied about Ilsa!" Sherlock blurted out suddenly, whirling around to face John.

"What?" John asked in confusion, pivoting slowly.

Over on the little terrace, Lestrade looked for an explanation from Mycroft, who simply shrugged in bewilderment.

"When we watched that film, Casablanca, a couple months ago," Sherlock explained nervously, "You asked me if I would have endangered hundreds of lives for someone I loved, and I said no. I lied."

"I thought love was a lesser, irrational thing fit only for idiots who can't reason properly," John said sarcastically, throwing his own words back at him.

"When I said that," Sherlock said quietly, focusing gaze on his hands, "It was only because I was very afraid that I had already become an idiot. Because, John?" he raised his head and looked directly at him before continuing, "If it were you and me on that tarmac, I could never have gotten on the plane. I would have let Victor leave, knowing that cities might burn, the war might be lost, but that I would rather live with that...than live without you."

"What are you saying?" John asked hesitantly, stepping slowly toward him.

Sherlock took a deep breath then said, only a little shakily, "I have gone over the evidence quite thoroughly and, though I might not understand it, and it might terrify me to admit, I can only conclude that I love you."

John began to rush toward him but stopped abruptly and warned him, "Sherlock, you know you can't just stay that because you want me to stay. You have to mean it."

"Of course I want you to stay!" Sherlock said exasperatedly, "I'd be lost without you. I'd curl up on the couch for weeks, months on end and not even the most fascinating logic problem would be able to move me. That's how this love business is supposed to work...isn't it?" He looked suddenly unsure.

John smiled at him fondly and, stepping forward to gently take his hand, said, "Yes, yes, I suppose it is."

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, then back up at John, tentatively raised his other hand and lightly stroked John's cheek. John leaned into the touch and took a final step forward so their faces were mere inches apart.

Back on the secret terrace, Mycroft was squeezing Lestrade's hand in anticipation as they both subconsciously leaned forward. He very nearly cheered aloud when he saw his brother lean down to close the small distance between himself and John with a kiss.

Though tentative at first, soon they were both showing marked enthusiasm, with John wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and Sherlock responding by winding his around John's back.

"We should give them a little privacy," Lestrade whispered to Mycroft.

"In a minute," Mycroft murmured back, laying his head on Lestrade's shoulder and taking in the perfect sweetness of the moment. After a minute or so, Mycroft reluctantly stood up and followed Lestrade back through the secret corridor to the main building.

The second they re-entered the lighted hallway, Mycroft let out a loud shout of triumph, before tamping down on his excitement at a stern look from a rather imposing usher. Mycroft waited until they had moved to a more deserted part of the building to enthusiastically throw his arms around Lestrade's neck.

"We did it!" he cried jubilantly, "After all that, we actually did it."

Lestrade grinned back at him and said, "We did, didn't we? Mind you, it was rough going there for awhile..."

"Oh, never mind that," Mycroft scolded lightly, "The important part is that we managed to pull it off. They're together and they're happy."

As he descended slowly from the high their success had brought, Mycroft's expression changed from exuberance to bliss, and he leaned forward to give Lestrade a lingering kiss, which was gladly returned. When they reluctantly separated, Mycroft looked into Lestrade's eyes and said, "I know you don't like to meddle, but you did, because I asked you to. Now for the first time in my truly extensive memory, my brother is actually happy. None of this would have been possible without your help."

Lestrade smiled and brushed one hand gently down Mycroft's cheek, saying quietly, "There isn't much I wouldn't do for you."

Mycroft placed his hand over Lestrade's and said, "I know. I just wish I could thank you properly."

Lestrade replied dryly, "Well, you can start by buying me a drink."

Mycroft's eyes suddenly lit up, and he exclaimed, "A drink? Oh God, Jim and Charlie! They're probably downstairs moping and thinking the plan's failed terribly. We have to go tell them the good news!"

He grabbed Lestrade's hand, and they practically bounded down the rest of the hallway, as well as the hall's impressive staircase, before reaching the bar, where they found Jim nursing a scotch and Charlie instructing a thoroughly terrified-looking young bartender in the art of making the perfect martini.

"The secret is in the shake, you see," he explained. "You must always keep your wrist loose and your elbow bent on a swing from forty-five to one hundred and twenty-five degrees. Like this," he said, demonstrating his technique with lightning speed and depositing a perfect martini next to seven others identical to it on the bar. "Now try it again, this time with more panache."

Jim was giving a little sigh and sending him a look conveying a wordless, "Why must you always do this?" As he heard their approach, however, Jim turned his full attention to Mycroft and Lestrade and asked, concerned, "How did it go? I can't believe we didn't think of the wedding rings. Gave the whole game away."

Mycroft smiled and strode over to give him an affectionate clap on the shoulder, "Think nothing of it, dear fellow, it's all fixed now. We may officially declare Operation Casablanca a success!"

"Really?" Charlie exclaimed excitedly, "Oh, that's marvelous!" He ran out from behind the bar - much to the relief of the bartender - to give Lestrade a hug and said eagerly, "I want every single detail."

"And you shall have them," Mycroft declared, "But first, barkeep, a round of champagne if you please."

The boy behind the bar glanced nervously at Charlie, who gave him an imperious nod of assent, and he went to fetch the champagne.

"He's a dear boy, but still in need of further instruction. I told him to come by the pub next week to continue his lessons. Ah, perfect, thank you, Timothy," he said as the boy returned with four glasses on a tray.

At Charlie's small hand wave, he asked quickly, "Will there be anything further, gentlemen?"

"No, this will be more than enough, thank you so much, Timothy," Jim cut in firmly before Charlie could add anything further and shot the boy an apologetic look.

"A toast!" Mycroft said, "To Operation Casablanca!"

"Here, here!" the others shouted as they clinked their glasses together, before turning their attention to sampling the bubbly.

"Oh, that reminds me," Charlie interjected, rummaging in his bag. "I got us all a little something to remember the adventure, assuming that everything went well, of course." With a little flourish he produced four identical silver key-chains from his bag, each engraved with a name.

"This is going to be a bit hard to explain to the boys at the office," Lestrade said dryly, picking up the one in front of Mycroft with "Ilsa" emblazoned on it in fancy script.

"Nonsense," Mycroft replied, then turned to Charlie and added firmly, "I shall display it proudly, whenever I need my keys."

"As shall I," Jim declared, taking out his keys and slipping them on the ring labeled "Louis."

"And me," Lestrade assured him, copying Jim.

"Excellent!" Charlie exclaimed, obviously pleased. "Now, enough celebrating, we want all the sordid little details."

"Well," began Mycroft, "Right after you left..."

"Interrupting a meeting of the conspirators, am I?" came a voice from behind them.

Upon seeing John, Mycroft subconsciously backed up toward Lestrade and raised a hand to his battered nose.

John raised his hands in the air and said, "Never fear, I come in peace. Actually, while Sherlock is getting us a cab, I wanted to come by to thank you all for your extreme, but well-meaning interferences in my life, and to be properly introduced. Charlie, I'm presuming that is your name?"

"Oh yes," Charlie said, "And I really am the bartender at the Carpenter's Arms."

"I'm the one with the alias," Jim cut in, a bit embarrassed, "It's Jim. I'm Greg's best friend from the old days."

"Well, Jim, it's nice to meet you," John said cordially, shaking his hand. "So that magnificent billiards game you were telling me about, purely a work of fiction?"

"Alas, yes," Jim said wistfully.

"Pity," John remarked, "By all accounts it would have been quite remarkable."

It was then that Sherlock appeared in the doorway and looked at John almost shyly, indicating with a slight tilt of his head that the cab was waiting.

"Ah, I believe my ride is here," John said, then added magnanimously, "Gentlemen, I bid you goodnight. I'm sure I will see you around soon, but for now, I'm going home," unable to suppress his grin as he said the last word. With a little bow, he turned and walked over to the door to meet Sherlock; John leaned up to whisper something in his ear, which caused Sherlock to laugh brightly, and the two of them departed from the concert hall, arms around each other's waists.

The four of them gathered at the bar gave a collective sigh at the sweetness of the image before Charlie said, "I suppose we should be going, too, it is getting quite late. Soon though, shall we say next Friday, come to our place, and we'll bribe you for the details with Jim's award-winning chicken parmigiana."

"It's a date," Lestrade promised, and he and Mycroft bid Charlie and Jim farewell for the night.

"Alone at last," Lestrade said contentedly, linking his fingers with Mycroft's.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, sighing a bit wistfully. Suddenly, a gleam entered his eyes, and he asked casually, "Say, Gregory, is your sister still in love with that boss of hers? I always thought they would be really good together."

"No," Lestrade said firmly," Mycroft, no. This was a one time deal. I will not be traipsing around the British Isles playing matchmaker for anyone you think needs a bit of help in the romance department. No."

"Oh, but Gregory," Mycroft pleaded, "We already have the team together, it would simply be a matter of -"

"No," Lestrade interjected, "Absolutely not. I finally have you all to myself, and I'm not trading that for anything. Besides, we have plans through Tuesday, anyway."

"We do?" Mycroft asked, intrigued.

"I took the liberty of booking us four nights in a little hotel room overlooking the Seine," Lestrade announced, looking quite pleased with himself. "You and I are going to spend a very long weekend in full French style, eating pastries and looking at art, all while wearing matching berets, of course."

Mycroft started to smile brightly, but then his face clouded, and he said, "But I have that damn budget meeting on Monday -"

"Which I, of course, had Anthea reschedule," Lestrade interjected, "In fact, she's cleared your entire agenda until Wednesday. She also muttered something to the extent of 'About time,' if I remember rightly."

Mycroft scanned his considerable brain for any reasons he couldn't play hooky with his boyfriend for the weekend and, with Sherlock happily ensconced at 221b with John to look after him, was delighted to find none at all.

"And besides," Lestrade continued, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's waist, "I know the second we get back, you will roping me into some mad scheme, which I will inevitably go along with, but," and here he lowered Mycroft back into a dramatic dip, "At least we'll always have Paris."

Mycroft laughed and leaned up happily to kiss him, very glad that at least one Rick and Ilsa in the world could get a proper happy ending.


End file.
